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The Mysterious Visitor
Every Saturday at exactly 2 p.m., a man on a motorcycle would pull into the cemetery and head straight for my wife’s grave.
At first, I thought it was a coincidence — maybe he’d lost someone nearby. But week after week, month after month, he came back. Always the same. No flowers. No words. Just silence.
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Black Pudding
He would sit cross-legged beside her headstone, hands resting on the grass, head bowed. After an hour, he’d press his palm gently to the stone, stand, and leave.
I began watching him from my car, hidden behind the row of old pines. The quiet devotion unsettled me. Who was this man? Why did he come here every week — to her?
