- The first time I saw the small pair of blue sneakers sitting beside Paul’s headstone, I assumed it was a mistake. It had to be—someone had accidentally placed them on the wrong grave. I thought maybe a grieving parent had left them in a moment of confusion. After all, mourning does strange things to people. I knew this all too well.
After Paul passed, I found myself making jars upon jars of homemade jam. It wasn’t that I needed them, or that Paul had particularly liked jam. It was just something to do, a way to occupy my hands, to distract myself from the sudden void in my life. He had died in a car accident on his way home to me, and now I was alone. The grief was suffocating, and even the mindless task of making jam didn’t make it better.
The shoes at his grave, though, were different. I moved them aside, placed my lilies where they belonged, and whispered my usual words to Paul before leaving. I didn’t think much of it at the time.
But when I returned the following week, another pair of shoes had appeared—this time, small red rain boots, neatly placed at the base of the headstone. That was when I began to feel uneasy. There was no way this was a coincidence. Paul and I never had children, so why were these shoes appearing? Who was leaving them? The questions gnawed at me.
At first, I tried to brush it off. Maybe someone grieving nearby was leaving the shoes on the wrong grave, or perhaps it was some kind of mistake. But with each visit, there were more shoes, in different colors and sizes. Each time I stayed away for longer than a week, I would find another pair waiting for me when I returned.
Soon, my unease grew into frustration. It felt as though the universe was playing a cruel joke on me. The presence of those shoes—symbols of the life Paul and I never shared—cut deeper with each visit. I stopped going to the cemetery for a while, hoping the shoes would stop appearing if I stayed away. But when I finally returned, there were six pairs, all lined up in a neat row. My frustration boiled over into anger
Who was doing this? Was someone trying to mock my grief?
One cold, clear morning, I decided I had to know. I went to the cemetery earlier than usual, hoping to catch whoever was responsible. I had brought lilies for Paul, but as I approached the grave, I saw her.
I froze.
It was Maya, Paul’s secretary from years ago. I hadn’t seen her since she abruptly left her job shortly before Paul’s accident. She used to be so cheerful, always smiling, always polite. But now, her face was lined with grief. There was something in her eyes, a deep sadness that mirrored my own.
A woman, crouched by Paul’s headstone, was carefully placing a small pair of brown sandals next to the other shoes. She didn’t see me at first, her long dark hair swaying slightly in the breeze as she worked. But when I called out to her, she flinched and stood, turning to face me.
