For Weeks His Roses Vanished From His Wife’s Grave—So He Installed A Camera And Discovered Something That Changed Everything
Every Sunday, I brought seven crimson roses to my wife Malini’s grave, wrapped in paper as she liked. By Tuesday, they vanished—no petals, no trace. Other graves kept their faded flowers, but hers was always bare. Suspecting theft, I hid a small camera behind her headstone.
The footage showed a boy, about eleven, gently taking the roses. He returned the next day, sitting cross-legged with them in his lap for twenty-three minutes. I noticed a familiar silver locket around his neck—Malini’s, engraved with our initials, buried with her.
I confronted him at the cemetery. His name was Reza, grandson of Malini’s old coworker. He said a woman in a red dress—Malini’s favorite—told him he could borrow the roses for his sick mother in the hospital. They brought her hope. He also read my old poems, found in Malini’s collection, at her grave.
Reza claimed the locket appeared under a bench. I didn’t question it. We made a deal: I’d bring two rose bundles each Sunday—one for Malini, one for Reza’s mom. We’d meet, read, and remember. His mom recovered, and Reza wrote a poem: “Love doesn’t end / It just finds new places to land.” I let him keep the locket. Some things are meant to be carried forward.
