Snow drifted down in patient silence as Daniel Prescott shut the door of his black sedan. The cold struck his face like a confession he had postponed for ten years.

Every December 5th, he returned.
Same gate.
Same path.
Same flowers he never knew how to apologize with.

A decade had passed since Elena died, yet the frozen earth beneath his feet remained the only place where his heart spoke honestly. Elena—her laugh, the faint dimples when she smiled, the woman he had sworn to protect. The woman he still judged himself for losing.

The cemetery lay nearly empty, swallowed by white and stillness. Pine trees stood rigid, cradling snow like sentinels guarding old promises. Daniel drew his coat tighter, pressed the bouquet against his chest, and walked with the careful rhythm of someone afraid to disturb memory itself.

He stopped where he always did.

Elena Márquez Prescott. Always in my memory.

The words stared back at him, unchanged. He knelt, laid the flowers down, and closed his eyes—just long enough to imagine her voice teasing him, telling him to stop punishing himself.

When he opened them, the cold bit deeper.

Something was wrong.

Near the headstone lay a small plaid blanket, dusted with fresh snow. Beside it sat a child—curled inward, as if trying to disappear. Mud-stained gloves. Red, swollen eyes. In his hands, a black-and-white photograph, frayed at the edges from being held too tightly, too often.

Daniel’s breath caught.

The boy couldn’t have been more than nine or ten. He rocked slightly, lips moving in a whisper that barely survived the wind. Daniel took a step closer, the crunch of snow sounding obscenely loud in the silence.

Then the words reached him.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

Daniel froze.

The photo slipped just enough for him to see it.

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