I laughed.
“You’d better. I only married you for the flowers.”
James threw his head back and laughed.
That was the last time I ever heard that laugh.
Several weeks later, his unit came under attack overseas.
Some soldiers were killed.
Others disappeared during the chaos.
James was listed as missing.
His closest friend, Adrian, eventually returned home.
One gloomy afternoon, he sat across from me in my parents’ living room, his military cap clutched between his hands.
For a long time, he couldn’t look at me.
Finally, he said quietly,
“I saw the explosion, Mary.”
He swallowed.
“I’m sorry. I truly am. But I don’t believe James could have survived.”
No body was ever recovered.
Eventually, the official paperwork arrived.
Presumed dead.
Two words.
That was all I received after losing my husband.
Presumed.
Not confirmed.
Presumed.
It left the smallest opening for hope, and that tiny opening haunted me for decades.
I never remarried.
There were opportunities.
Kind men.
Good men.
My mother encouraged me to move forward while she was still alive.
Friends did too.
But some stubborn piece of my heart remained on that train platform.
Maybe it was loyalty.
Maybe it was foolishness.
Or maybe you cannot truly close a door when nobody ever allowed you to say goodbye.
Still, I built a life.
I worked as a bookkeeper for more than thirty years.
Numbers became comforting because they followed rules.
They added up properly.
Life rarely did.
I bought a small house on my own.
Paid the mortgage myself.
Kept a garden.
Loved my nieces, nephews, and later their children.
My life was quiet.
Not unhappy.
But there was always an empty chair somewhere inside it.
Until this morning.
Until fifty-six yellow roses appeared on my anniversary.
And hidden among them was an ugly paper flower carrying James’s initial.
My hands trembled as I searched through the bouquet again.
This time, beneath the ribbon, I noticed a small cream envelope.
My name was written across the front.
Mary.
The handwriting wasn’t James’s.
I opened it anyway.
Inside was a card.
The first sentence made the room tilt around me.
“Darling, you won’t believe why I had to disappear. Adrian lied to you.”
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
Adrian lied to you.
There were more instructions beneath it.
“Act normally. If you still have the yellow dress, bring it. Take the roses to the old station at 11:00. Do exactly as I’m asking.”
