That morning, Élise believed it would be like so many others.
A quiet visit.
A few words spoken softly into the stillness.
A moment alone with memories.
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She had dressed carefully, pulling on a warm coat that barely closed over her growing belly. In one hand, she carried a small bouquet of white lilies — Julien’s favorite. In the other, she held herself steady, as she often had to since becoming both pregnant and widowed in the same cruel year.
The cemetery was peaceful, wrapped in a pale morning light. Dew clung to the grass, and the air carried the faint scent of earth and fallen leaves. Élise walked slowly between the rows of headstones, her steps measured, her thoughts heavy but familiar. Grief had become a quiet companion — never loud, never dramatic, just always there.
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Julien’s grave appeared at the end of the path, exactly where it always was.
She smiled sadly.
“I’m here,” she whispered, as if he might answer.
But then she noticed something that had not been there before.
At the base of the headstone, resting on the damp grass, lay a small leather wallet.
