Time is strangely dulled by grief. Weeks pass, and yet each recollection feels as jagged as a sword. My father passed away six months ago, and even though life moved on, the sadness persisted. I took comfort in going to his cemetery once a week and telling him what I was no longer able to say.

The air was clear that morning, with a light wind whispering among the tall oaks in the cemetery. I held a bouquet of his favorite white lilies as I stood by his grave.

I wiped away a tear and said, “Goodbye, Dad,” in a whisper.

I was about to leave when I spotted a thin figure standing close to a recently excavated cemetery a few rows away. An old blind woman using a white cane was wearing a plain black outfit. Her eyes were obscured by her heavy glasses, but the hunch in her shoulders said a lot.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I whispered quietly as I walked up to her. “Do you need help?”