The First Crimson Petal

The mystery began on a Tuesday in late October. The morning was crisp, and a light frost coated the grass. As they crested the hill toward Michael’s grave, Mary stopped in her tracks.

“Peter, look,” she whispered.

Resting perfectly in the center of the headstone was a single, long-stemmed red rose. It was strikingly vibrant against the grey stone, its petals plump and saturated with color. There were no other visitors in sight, and the surrounding graves—some of which belonged to Michael’s schoolmates—were bare.

They assumed it was a one-time gesture from a grieving friend. But two days later, when the first rose began to wilt, it was replaced by another, even fresher than the first.