For months, every Saturday at 2 p.m., a quiet man visited my late wife Sarah’s memorial. He sat in silent reflection, then left without a word. His faithful devotion stirred my curiosity: Who was he to Sarah?
Sarah had been a compassionate nurse, a loving wife and mother. Her kindness, I suspected, might explain his visits. I watched from afar, hesitant to intrude on something sacred.
Finally, I approached. “I’m Sarah’s husband,” I said. “Did you know her?”
He stood respectfully. “I’m Ben,” he replied. “Sarah cared for my daughter when cancer took her. She brought light in our darkest days. I come to thank her, to keep her kindness alive.”
As Ben left, I felt Sarah’s love ripple onward. Her compassion hadn’t died; it lived in his weekly gratitude, in hearts she touched. Love never fades; it lingers in silent tributes, carried forward by strangers who return to say thank you.
