My Thomas is buried in a quiet corner of Fairhaven Cemetery, under an old oak that drops acorns on his headstone every autumn. For twenty years I have come every Saturday morning with a thermos of coffee and sat with him a while. It is the most peaceful hour of my week.
The grave right next to his always puzzled me. It has no proper headstone, only a small flat marker with a name I couldn’t read, worn smooth by weather. But it is never neglected. Every week, fresh flowers appear there — daisies, mostly, sometimes wild ones that look hand-picked.
For twenty years I never once caught the person who left them. I’d arrive to find yesterday’s flowers already there, still dewy. I used to make up little stories about who it might be. A widower, maybe. A grown child. I felt a strange kinship with this faithful stranger who visited on a different clock than mine.
As the years passed, my curiosity grew into something almost like longing. Whoever they were, they loved someone as steadily as I loved my Thomas, and I wanted, just once, to nod at them across the grass in silent understanding.
So one Saturday last spring, I did something I’d never done. I came at first light, before the birds were even properly up, and I sat on the little bench near the oak, and I waited. Around seven o’clock, a figure came slowly up the path with daisies in her hand.
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