The cold sun peeped slowly at me and I rose creaking out of my hiding place. I stretched every cramped, frozen muscle back into position. The crimson glow on the grave enchanted me. I walked groaning and shivering closer to the beautiful monument. Caroline lay on her stone bed, sleeping for ages, while a book slips out of her hand. An instant photograph of the day she died in 1867. A breathtaking sculpture of her beauty. Slowly I removed the wilted flowers on her grave, it turned to dust in my hands. I hesitated before touching the blood-red flower lying in her hand.
“It cannot be, it is impossible” I read furiously through my notes, every fifteen minutes I recorded the night, noting the time in each instance. I certainly did not fall asleep. I did not see someone place the fresh red flower in her hands. For almost a hundred and fifty years, every morning a fresh flower lay in her carved hands, every morning — rain or snow. Every morning a fresh flower. This morning again. I sat and waited and I did not see anyone.
The icy wind spat snowflakes in my face. I glanced around the graveyard. There were no footprints, nothing. I carefully picked up the red flower, afraid it would crumble in my hand. The fresh juice dripped on my hand. Its odor hung in the air. Who has for the last 150 years, given Caroline a fresh flower, every day?
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