Every Sunday, I brought seven crimson roses to my wife Malini’s grave—always wrapped in the paper she loved. But by Tuesday, they were gone. Not wilted, not stolen by weather—just gone. Other graves still held rotting flowers, but hers was always bare. Curious, I hid a small camera behind her headstone to solve the mystery.

Days passed until the third afternoon, when I saw a boy—skinny, about eleven—quietly pluck each rose. He handled them gently, like they mattered. The next day, he returned, not to steal, but to sit cross-legged by the grave with the roses in his lap. Then I noticed the silver locket around his neck—the one I buried with Malini.

I went to the cemetery and waited. At 3:34 p.m., he appeared again, clutching a notebook. He read softly to her—one of my old poems. When I spoke, he froze. “She told me this was a safe place,” he said. “The lady in the red dress.” My heart stopped. Malini’s favorite dress was red.

The boy, Reza, explained that Malini had comforted him once, telling him he could talk there. He’d been taking the roses to his sick mother in the hospital because “the lady said they were for someone who needed love.” He wasn’t stealing—he was sharing hope.

From that day on, we met every Sunday. I brought two bundles of roses—one for Malini, one for his mom. By December, his mother recovered. Before moving away, Reza gave me a poem: “Love doesn’t end / It just finds new places to land.” I let him keep the locket. Some things aren’t meant to stay buried—they’re meant to keep love alive.