Peter’s hands were shaking as he zip-tied the small trail camera to the branch of the old oak tree. It was pitch black in the cemetery, the silence broken only by the wind whistling through the headstones. He knew this was technically illegal, but he didn’t care. He needed answers.
For the past month, he and his wife Mary had arrived at their son Michael’s grave to find a fresh, long-stemmed red rose already there. Every single morning. The dew on the petals was always fresh. Someone was visiting Michael before the gates even officially opened.
“It’s just a kind stranger,” Mary had tried to soothe him, but her eyes betrayed her fear. Peter didn’t buy it. Strangers don’t leave expensive roses every dawn. This was personal. And tonight, Peter was going to find out who was invading their grief.
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