Happy Monday, 19th May 2025. Love and Remembrance.

I have to tell you something that’s been sitting with me quietly but deeply, and I think you will understand.

My own photographs. Names have been hidden to protect privacy and identity.

Every time I visit the cemetery — where a friend’s ashes are buried among the trees with their quiet plaques — I find myself stopping at one in particular. It’s the plaque for a young man who died after a train accident. I never knew him, but I feel like I do now in some small way.

It’s the roses. Every single time I’ve gone, and I go at random times on random days across all the seasons, there they are: a vase of fresh yellow roses. Always fresh. Always there. And without fail, one single yellow rose is tucked into the plaque itself, like a quiet, personal offering.

Nine years. Can you imagine?

Nine years of unwavering remembrance.

I don’t know who leaves them. Only once did I catch a glimpse of a couple who might’ve been his parents. But there was something sacred about their presence, and it didn’t feel right to…