The old woman buys a bouquet of carnations and walks straight to the cemetery on the hill. Every week for five years, she’s placed her bright offerings on a virgin plot of grass beside a line of foundering tombstones, a preemptive gesture of love for those yet untaken. Some days, visitors move the flowers to a neighboring grave, cursing the callous wind; others perceive a waste, tenderly plucking blooms to gift their other halves. By week’s end the flowers disappear, and the old woman, moved by mystery, returns.



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