The trip doesn’t make sense, and it certainly isn’t convenient.
That’s the power of tradition for you.
Still, he makes the journey every year without complaint. Stops off at the same dreary little town, and purchases the same limp looking bunch of carnations.
At least he makes the effort.
Nobody else ever visits, that much is obvious. The grass is unkempt, and the weeds overgrown. You would never know, he thinks.
Never guess that this is the final resting place of the woman he had once loved beyond reason.
Fourteen years, and there is still no marker, no headstone.
No police tape.
She had never loved him, he reflects, even as he turns his back on the spot he had so carefully chosen and returns to the car.
If she had, who knew?
Perhaps he wouldn’t have to keep secrets.