The day before marrying my new wife, I went to clean my late wife’s grave. What happened there was completely unexpected—and it changed my life forever.

The day before my second wedding, I went somewhere I hadn’t planned to stay long.
I told myself it would be brief—just enough time to clear the weeds from the stone, replace the wilted flowers, and say a quiet goodbye. Nothing dramatic. Nothing emotional.

But grief never respects schedules.

My name is Daniel Whitmore. Four years ago, my first wife, Anna, was killed by a drunk driver on a rainy night not unlike this one. She was thirty-two. One moment she was laughing at something on the radio, and the next, she was gone. Since then, I’ve lived in Seattle, moving through days on autopilot, surviving rather than living, convincing myself that routine was the same thing as healing.

Then Claire entered my life.

She didn’t try to save me. She didn’t rush me. She simply stood where the emptiness was and didn’t turn away. She noticed the pauses in my sentences, the way I avoided certain memories. She asked questions that weren’t intrusive, just honest. Over time—slowly, quietly—I fell in love again.

And that terrified me.

As our wedding approached, the guilt grew heavier. Every detail felt like a betrayal. Was I dishonoring Anna by moving forward? Or was I being unfair to Claire by loving her with a heart that still ached for someone else?

That confusion is what brought me to the cemetery that night.

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