Five years had passed since his life had split into two distinct eras: «before» and «after.» Since that fateful day when he lost the woman who had been his light, his anchor, his very breath.

Each morning, he awoke with a heavy weight pressed against his chest. Each night, he fell asleep whispering her name into the silence.
The house echoed with a haunting stillness, and he had adapted to the quiet grief that had become his constant companion.

He clung to the rituals that kept him afloat — simple gestures, but vital.
Every morning, he brewed two cups of coffee, though only one was ever drunk.
He walked the streets they had once wandered together, side by side.
And, without fail, he visited the cemetery, laying down the same flowers every time — her favorites: white lilies.

This morning had been no different. He rose early, chose the freshest lilies from the florist, and made his way to her grave. Beneath the cold grey sky, he carefully arranged the flowers, murmured a few words into the wind — trivial updates from a life that no longer felt truly lived — and returned home, carrying the same old ache in his heart.

The Moment That Shattered Reality
As he stepped into the kitchen, he froze.

There, on the table, in the old crystal vase she had loved so dearly, stood a bouquet of white lilies.

The very same lilies he had left at her grave just hours earlier.

He stood rooted to the floor, unable to move, unable even to think. His mind raced in chaotic spirals. Had he forgotten to visit the cemetery? Had he imagined the entire morning? Had he, somehow, placed the flowers there without realizing it?

But no — the memories were too vivid. The dew on the grass, the chill of the air, the worn stone of her name beneath his fingertips.

And now, impossibly, the lilies were here, gleaming with fresh droplets of moisture.

Fear and Hope
His heart pounded so violently he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Slowly, cautiously, he approached the vase.

The lilies were real. Vibrant. Fresh.

He reached out a trembling hand to touch a petal — cool and soft beneath his fingertips.

Was it a sign? Was she still here, somehow, unseen but near?

The thought terrified him and yet filled him with an inexplicable peace.

He collapsed into a chair, staring at the flowers as memories of her flooded over him — her laughter, her touch, her scent.

And somewhere deep inside, a timid thought took root:
Maybe she was trying to tell him something.

The Weight of the Past
For months after that day, he searched for explanations.

He questioned neighbors, retraced his steps, second-guessed his memories.
He considered every rational possibility, no matter how far-fetched.

No one had entered his home.
No one had touched those flowers.

Eventually, he realized he might never find a logical answer. And strangely, he no longer needed one.

What mattered was that something had shifted.

The house no longer seemed quite so empty.
The air felt lighter.

Slowly, he began to reclaim pieces of his life.
He smiled at strangers. He lingered in conversations. He let the sun touch his face again.

He was not moving on — he was moving forward, carrying her memory with him rather than being trapped beneath it.

A New Life with Her Memory
Every morning, he still brewed two cups of coffee.

But now he did so with a smile, remembering the mornings when they had sat together, hands wrapped around warm mugs, talking about nothing and everything.

Each time he passed the cemetery, he still left flowers — sometimes lilies, sometimes roses, sometimes whatever seemed right.

Because he knew now that she was not confined to a cold stone marker. She lived within him, woven into every breath, every step, every heartbeat.

And sometimes, when the morning light slanted just so through the kitchen window, he thought he could see her smile — a gentle, loving smile that seemed to whisper:

«Keep living. I’m still here.»