Yesterday would have been my son’s thirty-fifth birthday.

Instead of a cake, I bought sunflowers.

Edward always brought me sunflowers when he visited.

Never in a vase, never arranged nicely. Just a bunch wrapped in grocery-store plastic, tucked under one arm beside his toolbox.

“For the prettiest girl on the block,” he’d say.

“You’re only saying that because you want lunch.”

“Can both things be true?”

Usually, I’d make him a sandwich.

*

Seven months ago, Edward died in a car accident on his way home from work.

I still sometimes reach for my phone when something breaks.

Yesterday, I stood beside his headstone, arranging sunflowers in the little vase I’d brought.

“The kitchen faucet’s leaking again, Eddie,” I told him.

I could almost hear his answer.

“Mom, why didn’t you just call me?”

I stayed until the wind grew cold.

Then I went home.

It wasn’t until evening that I realized I’d left my pruning shears beside the grave.

*

I returned the next morning.

I was halfway along the gravel path when I noticed a woman in a worn gray coat.

She carried a large shopping bag.

Flowers spilled over the top.

Roses. Carnations. Lilies with their buds still closed.

Then I watched her bend over a grave and remove a pink carnation from a fresh bouquet.

She slipped it into her bag.

Then she moved to another grave.

She wasn’t picking up discarded flowers.

She was choosing the freshest ones.

I watched her take a white rose from one arrangement and a sprig of greenery from another.

Water dripped from the bottom of her bag onto her shoes.

I stopped in the middle of the path.

She must be collecting them to sell.

Then she turned toward Edward’s grave.

She stopped in front of his headstone.

Then she bent down and pulled a sunflower from the bouquet I’d arranged the day before.

“Don’t touch that.”

The woman flinched.

She turned, still holding the sunflower.

I walked straight toward her.

“Give it back.”

She handed it over immediately.

Up close, she looked to be around my age, perhaps a little younger.

Her coat was frayed at the cuffs, and her fingers were damp.

“How many graves have you taken those from?”

She lowered her eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“I brought these for my son yesterday.”

I took another step toward her.

“It was his birthday.”

The woman looked toward the headstone.

“I’m very sorry.”

“Are you?”

She said nothing.

“This is all I can do for him now.” My fingers closed around the sunflower stem. “And you’re taking them to sell?”

Her head snapped up.

“I’m not selling them.”

“Then what are you doing?”

She looked at the sunflower in my hand.

“Please follow me. You need to see something.”

I almost laughed.

“You expect me to go somewhere with you?”

“I live across the street.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re stealing flowers.”

“I know.” She tightened her grip on the bag. “I can show you.”

I looked down at the stems pressed against one another.

“You’re putting every one of those back.”

“I will.”

“Now.”

She hesitated.

“Please. Ten minutes. Then I’ll bring them back, and you can come with me.”

I didn’t like the arrangement.

I liked even less the thought of walking away without knowing what she was doing.

I glanced toward the cemetery entrance.

There were houses across the road.

A few cars passed.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Monica.”

“I’m Sansa.”

She nodded.

I held the sunflower against my coat.

“All right, Monica. Show me.”

*

Her house was small, with faded blue shutters and a narrow front porch.

She led me through a tidy living room.

Monica stopped in front of a locked room at the end of the hallway.

She took a key from her pocket.

“What’s in there?” I asked.

She looked at me.

“The reason I took the flowers.”

She unlocked the door.

Then she switched on the light.

I stopped on the threshold.

Shelves covered one wall.

On them stood small objects in wooden boxes, each covered with a soft white cloth.

Handwritten labels were attached beneath the boxes.

Some held dates.

Others had names.

A worktable stood beneath the window.

On it were trays of dried petals, small molds, gloves, and containers of clear casting resin.

I looked from the table to the shelves.

“What is all this?”

Monica didn’t answer immediately.

Then I noticed a label on the second shelf.

Edward.

I moved closer.

There was his full name, written carefully on a small card.

I turned toward Monica.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve taken his flowers.”

She shook her head.

“No.”

I tucked my hands against my coat.

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Since a few weeks after his funeral.”

“Why?”

She reached toward the white cloth.

“May I show you?”

I nodded.

Monica lifted the cloth.

Beneath it sat a small rectangular piece of clear resin.

Inside were dried petals, arranged in soft layers.

Yellow.

White.

Pale blue.

And running through them was a narrow blue ribbon.

I knew that ribbon.

I’d tied it around the first bouquet I brought to Edward’s grave after his funeral.

It had been cut from an old spool in my sewing drawer.

I’d knotted it twice because my fingers were shaking.

A week later, the ribbon was gone.

I’d searched around the grave.

I thought the wind had carried it away.

Now it was suspended inside a clear block, its edges slightly faded.

I reached toward it, then stopped.

Tears blurred the ribbon as I leaned closer.

“Where did you get that?” I whispered.

Monica rubbed her thumb along the edge of the worktable.

“From his grave.”

I stared at the ribbon.

For months, I’d pictured it tangled in weeds somewhere beyond the cemetery fence.

Instead, it had been sitting in this woman’s house.

*

“Why would you take that?” I asked.

“I wanted to preserve it.”

“For whom?”

Monica looked down.

“For you, eventually.”

I turned toward her.

“You don’t know me.”

“No.”

“You didn’t know Edward.”

“No.”

“Then why would you think you had the right?”

She didn’t answer.

I looked back at the resin.

The ribbon had a tiny dark spot near one end.

I’d made that mark accidentally with a pen while writing a grocery list.

There was no mistaking it.

I pressed my fingertips against the wooden box.

Then I noticed a folded piece of paper tucked beneath the resin.

It was yellowed slightly at the edges.

The handwriting on the outside was mine.

I picked it up.

I knew what it was before opening it.

*

On my second visit after Edward’s funeral, I’d tucked a note into the stems of a bouquet.

I hadn’t wanted to say the words aloud.

I’d written them on a scrap of paper at my kitchen table.

I unfolded it now.

The kitchen is too quiet without your radio on, Eddie.

That was all.

Edward used to turn on a little portable radio whenever he fixed something at my house.

He liked old rock songs.

He sang badly.

Sometimes I complained about the noise.

I’d give anything to hear it again.

*

I pressed the note against my coat and cried. Monica stood beside the worktable without speaking.

When I could manage it, I folded the note carefully.

Then I looked at her.

“Did you read this?”

She hesitated.

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“I know.”

“Those words weren’t for you.”

“I’m sorry, Sansa.”

I put the note in my coat pocket.

I couldn’t bear to leave it there another second.

Monica pulled out a chair.

“Would you like to sit?”

“No.”

She nodded.

I looked around the room again.

“How many families have you done this to?”

She flinched at the question.

“I don’t know the exact number.”

“You’ve been taking flowers from strangers’ graves without asking them?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Monica walked to the far end of the worktable.

She opened a small drawer and took out a crooked piece of resin.

It was no bigger than a matchbox.

A single pink petal floated inside.

“This was the first one I made,” she said. “It was from flowers left for my daughter.”

I looked at her.

“Your daughter?”

“She died nine years ago.”

Monica turned the little block in her fingers.

“After the funeral, I kept going back to her grave. I’d bring flowers, and a week later they’d be gone. The cemetery had to clear them away. I understood that. But I hated it.”

She set the little block down.

“I started drying petals from the flowers I brought her. I watched videos, bought supplies, ruined more pieces than I finished.”

She turned the uneven little block between her fingers.

“That one took me three tries.”

“And then?”

“Then I started noticing other graves. Fresh bouquets left in the rain. Cards tucked among the stems. I kept thinking someone would want to save a little of them.”

“So you took them.”

“Just a few stems from each.”

“Without asking.”

“Yes.”

I glanced at Edward’s name.

“What were you planning to do with these?”

“Return them.”

“How?”

“In small wooden boxes. I wrote down the names and dates from the headstones so I could keep each person’s flowers separate. I thought I’d leave the boxes near their graves before the death anniversaries.”

I stared at her.

“You thought families would know who left them?”

“I planned to include a note.”

“And if the cemetery staff removed the boxes?”

She went quiet.

“Have you already left any?” I asked.

“A few.”

“Did anyone get them?”

Monica looked toward the window.

“I don’t know.”

I shook my head.

I looked at the bag she’d carried inside.

Fresh stems were still pressed against its sides.

“You have to stop. Not just taking flowers from Edward. From everyone.”

Monica nodded.

“And those flowers in your bag need to go back today.”

“Of course.”

I looked at the resin piece again.

Part of me wanted to take it home immediately.

Another part was furious that she had made it at all.

“May I keep my note?” I asked.

“It’s yours.”

I slipped it deeper into my pocket.

Then I looked at the blue ribbon.

“I need time to think about that.”

Monica nodded.

“Take as much as you need.”

*

We carried the shopping bag back across the street.

I showed Monica the graves where I’d seen her remove flowers.

She returned the stems she could identify.

A few had become mixed together.

We took those to the cemetery office.

Monica explained what she’d done.

The staff member listened with a tired expression and told her plainly that she couldn’t remove flowers from graves without permission.

She also explained that unapproved boxes left at headstones might be cleared away.

Outside, I stopped beside Edward’s grave.

His birthday sunflowers were still there.

I returned the one I’d been holding.

Then I found my pruning shears where I’d left them, half-hidden beside the vase.

I picked them up.

Monica waited a few steps away.

“May I finish the presentation box for Edward’s flowers?” she asked.

I looked at the sunflowers.

“Not yet.”

She nodded.

“All right.”

*

At home, I placed the folded note on my kitchen counter.

The faucet dripped.

I opened the cupboard beneath the sink.

Edward’s toolbox was still there.

Inside were spare washers, a wrench, and a screwdriver with a worn yellow handle.

I took out the wrench.

Then I put it back.

Edward had always made fixing things look easier than it was.

I found a plumber’s number on my phone and arranged an appointment.

Afterward, I stood in the kitchen for a long time.

The note lay beside the sink.

I picked it up and read it once more.

Then I opened my sewing drawer.

The old spool of blue ribbon was still inside.

I held it in one hand, thinking about the piece in Monica’s locked room.

I hadn’t decided whether I wanted it.

But I knew I couldn’t forget it.

*

By midafternoon, I called Monica.

“I’ve been thinking about Edward’s flowers.”

She was quiet.

“Would you like the piece?”

“Yes. But don’t add anything else to it.”

“Of course.”

“And Monica?”

“Yes?”

“Please ask people before touching their flowers again.”

“I will, Sansa.”

*

I drove back before evening. Monica had placed the finished resin piece inside a small wooden presentation box.

The blue ribbon lay among the preserved petals.

She hadn’t added anything.

“Thank you,” I said.

Monica clasped her hands.

“I asked the cemetery office whether I could offer preservation privately, if families contact me themselves. I won’t touch another flower unless someone asks me to.”

“That sounds better.”

She nodded.

“I should’ve done that from the beginning.”

I picked up the box .

“I think Edward would’ve liked the ribbon.”

Monica smiled faintly.

“Tell me about him sometime?”

I considered that.

“Maybe.”

*

The sun was lowering when I returned home. I placed Edward’s memorial on the kitchen windowsill.

Beside it, I set a small jar with one fresh sunflower I’d bought on the way home.

The ribbon caught the fading light.

The faucet dripped behind me as I took out my phone.

My thumb hovered over Edward’s name.

For a moment, I wanted to call him about the faucet.

Instead, I opened my photographs.

There he was, standing in my kitchen with his toolbox under one arm and sunflowers under the other.

His shirt was stained.

He was grinning.

I enlarged the picture.

“You would’ve fixed it before I finished complaining, Eddie.”

Then I set the phone beside the flowers and put the kettle on.