“Tomorrow I’m marrying Laura, the woman who waited patiently for me for three years. Everything is ready; both families have meticulously planned the wedding. But deep in my heart, an indelible shadow still lingers: the memory of Mariana, my first wife, who died in a car accident four years ago.”
That day remains etched in my memory like a scar. Mariana had gone to the market early to prepare the meal for my father’s death anniversary. And then, that call that shattered me: “Your wife has been in an accident… we did everything we could, but she didn’t survive.”
When I arrived, her body was already lifeless, and on her face remained the sweet smile I knew so well. I felt like the whole world was collapsing beneath my feet.
I spent a year living like a ghost. The house we had built with so much effort became a cold and empty place. Every time I opened the closet and could still smell the fabric softener she used, I collapsed. My friends and family kept urging me to move on, but I just shook my head. I believed I wasn’t worthy of anyone and that I could never love again.
Until Laura came along. She was a new coworker, five years younger than me. She wasn’t pushy or trying to get too close, but her quiet tenderness showed me that my heart could still feel warmth. When I thought about Mariana, she would sit beside me and offer me a cup of tea. When the noise of the streets made me relive the tragedy, she would hold my hand until I calmed down. For three years, she never asked me to forget the past; she simply waited, with infinite patience, for me to open my heart.
And so I decided to marry her. But before taking that step, I felt I should visit Mariana, clean her grave, and light some incense. I wanted to believe that, wherever she was, she too wanted to see me happy.
That afternoon, it was drizzling softly. The cemetery was empty; only the wind rustled through the eucalyptus trees. I carried white flowers, a cloth, and a bundle of votive candles. With a trembling hand, I placed the chrysanthemums on the grave and whispered,
“Mariana, I’m marrying another woman tomorrow. I know that if you were still alive, you would also want me to find someone to be with. I’ll never forget you, but I must move on… I can’t make Laura wait any longer.”
A tear fell without me realizing it. As I cleaned the headstone, I heard very soft footsteps behind me.
I turned around, my eyes still red. Standing before me was a woman in her thirties, slender, wearing a light brown coat. Her hair was tousled by the wind, and her eyes held a melancholic glint.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” she said, her voice trembling.
I nodded, wiping away my tears:
“Don’t worry… did you come to visit someone?”
She was silent for a moment, looked at the headstone next to her, and replied:
“I came to visit my sister. She died in a car accident… four years ago.”
My heart stopped. I read the inscription on the nearby headstone: Gabriela Ramírez – 1992-2019. The exact same date Mariana passed away.
“Your sister… died on the same day as my wife.”
Her eyes widened in surprise, and she looked at me intently:
“Your wife died that day too?”
I nodded and briefly told her what had happened. Her eyes filled with tears as she placed a bouquet of white lilies on her sister’s grave.
“That day, Gabriela was traveling with a friend… I never imagined it would be her last trip,” she said between sobs.
The silence of the cemetery enveloped us. I felt a strange connection, as if the pain of two strangers had become intertwined by chance.
As we said goodbye, she told me,
“I’m Isabel.”
“My name is Daniel,” I replied.
We stayed a while longer, talking about those we had lost. She told me that Gabriela was cheerful, optimistic, and loved music. I spoke of Mariana, of her sweetness, of how she always thought of others. There was pain in our eyes, yes, but also a glimmer of tenderness as we recalled beautiful memories.
The next day, my wedding to Laura was celebrated surrounded by family and friends. She looked radiant in white, and everyone congratulated us on finding happiness again. But deep inside, the image of Isabel in the cemetery still echoed.
Fate, capricious as it may be, brought us together again. I discovered that she worked for a company that supplied mine. When we saw each other at a meeting, she could barely whisper,
“Daniel…”
We had coffee after work. Isabel confided in me,
“Since Gabriela died, I’ve thrown myself into my work. But there are still nights when I cry for no reason. Finding him that day at the cemetery made me feel I wasn’t alone in this grief.”
I listened to her and understood that an invisible bond existed between us: that of shared grief. But I also knew that this same bond was dangerous. I had just gotten married; I couldn’t allow myself to fall into emotional turmoil.
Over time, Isabel and I met several times.
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