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« Excuse me. »
He stopped.
For a moment, I thought he might pretend not to hear me.
Instead, he turned slowly.
He looked to be in his late fifties.
Weathered face.
Work boots covered in dried mud.
Gentle eyes that looked older than the rest of him.
« I’m sorry, » I said, « but you’ve been visiting my husband’s grave every Sunday for years. »
His eyes drifted toward the headstone.
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