It was quiet here. A peaceful sort of quiet with an air of regret, guilt, sadness.

Simon stared down at the grave, before bending down and laying the bouquet of flowers next to the gravestone.

Sweatpeas, primroses, purple hyacinths, marigolds.

He’d asked the lady running the flower stand for those particular flowers, all with very significant meanings.

He personally hadn’t liked flowers that much, but you had. And he’d grow gardens of them if it meant he could be with you again.