For six months, I watched him from inside my car.
The same day.
The same time.
Every Saturday, at exactly two in the afternoon, he would arrive at the cemetery on his Harley, park near the old oak tree, and walk straight to Emily's gravestone.
Then he would sit by her grave for a whole hour.
She never brought flowers.
He never left a note.
He never spoke loudly enough for me to hear him.
She would simply sit cross-legged on the grass, head down, as if she were carrying a pain too heavy to bear.
The first time I saw it, I thought he had made a mistake.
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