After Danny died, I visited his grave on the 15th of every month. Strangely, someone always arrived first—leaving fresh flowers. For a year, I wondered who it could be. One morning, I came early and asked the groundskeeper. He said a quiet man with dark hair came every Friday. I asked him to take a photo.

When I saw the picture, my heart froze—it was Kevin, my son-in-law.

At home, Kevin confessed. A year ago, he was struggling, drinking secretly after losing his job. Danny found out and quietly supported him, even helping him apply for work. The night of the accident, Kevin had called him for help. Danny came—and died saving him.

“I’ve visited his grave every week,” Kevin sobbed. “I bring the flowers he used to give you. I talk to him. I apologize.”

I took his hand. “Danny died helping someone he loved. That’s who he was.”

Alice struggled with the truth, but over time, healing began. Kevin entered therapy. He now joins me on visits, and our grandson brings red roses—Danny’s favorite.

We still grieve, but now with peace. I believe Danny led us here—from beyond, still guiding us, with love.