Murdered

I was murdered.

It happened three years ago when I left my house. Two motorcycle riders shot me and had already fled by the time my body hit the ground. Even if I had seen their faces, what could I have done? A dead person can't do much.

I had a son and a wife. I couldn't muster the courage to face my parents who I had caused so much pain in their old age. So, I went straight to the cemetery.

My untimely death was painful, but I am grateful for the good companions I have found in the cemetery who have given me courage. It has been three years now, and whenever someone comes to the house, I leave the cemetery and go far away.

My mother still suffers from knee pain, which she has had for a long time. She used to come to the cemetery, but now she can't. Recently, the caretakers told me that it's not possible for her to come anymore. She is always sick, and the hospital is far away. The neighborhood is good, but if anyone gets sick, it's hard to get proper medical attention.

I find solace in the thought that when my son grows up, he will take care of his mother. However, my father is probably unhappy with me. He doesn't come to meet us even on Eid or Shab-e-Barat. When he comes with a funeral procession, he just reads the funeral prayer and leaves. My only wish was to hug him once when they lowered me into the grave. But it was my mistake, if I had listened to them and stayed at home that day, maybe I wouldn't be here today.

My wife often comes with our son. The sheikh at the nearby grave always tells me that your son has learned how to read the inscriptions on the gravestones and spends all his time reading them. My wife looks at the graves in silence and leaves flowers before she goes.

There is only my grave in the entire cemetery, which is decorated with marigold flowers. Although my wife was allergic to them, she would sneeze even from a distance if she saw the marigolds. I often tell her that I like marigolds and that I buy the sharp, naughty marigolds just to tease her. She would close her eyes in fear, and I would bring the flower near her nose, sometimes throwing it to make her feel uncomfortable.

I wonder how she buys those marigold flowers now. She was afraid of them and would get scared. I don't have the courage to go near them until the flowers wither away from my grave. She still comes to visit even today.

I am waiting for the flowers to dry up so that can pluck them from my grave on this Night.

I waited patiently for the flowers to dry up, knowing that I would finally be able to pluck them from my grave. The marigolds were a symbol of my love for my wife, and I wanted to hold onto that love, even in death.

As the night wore on, the wind began to pick up, and the dried petals of the marigold flowers began to rustle and scatter. I reached out and plucked them from my grave, holding them close to my heart.

In that moment, I felt a sense of peace. Though I was no longer alive, my love for my wife still burned brightly, and I knew that it would continue to do so for all eternity.