The Obsession Takes Root

Weeks turned into a month. The “Rose Deliveries,” as Peter began to call them, never faltered. The precision was eerie. If a storm blew through at night, the rose would be found the next morning, pristine and untouched by the wind.

Curiosity, fueled by the vacuum of their grief, turned into an obsession. They checked with the local florists; no one had an order for Michael Bennett’s grave. They asked the groundskeepers; no one had seen a soul near that plot before 9:00 AM.

“Someone is watching us,” Peter said one night, pacing the kitchen. “Someone knows exactly when we come and when the flowers fade. I need to see their face, Mary. I need to know why they’re doing this.”