Note from Steph: Originally, Claude wanted to go super paranormal on this story, but it wasn't sitting right with me today. So instead, I changed it to be a bit of divine intervention. I think it works better.
The first snow always comes on a Sunday. Frank says it’s a coincidence, but I know better. Emily loved Sundays — pancake days, she called them, even after she was too old for shaped pancakes and too young to die.
“Ready?” Frank offers his arm as we start up the path we’ve walked for twelve years now. His wool coat is the same one he wore to her funeral, though the elbows have been patched twice. I don’t have the heart to suggest a new one.
The cemetery is different in the first snow, peaceful in a way summer flowers can’t manage. Our footprints mark the untouched white — just two sets, like always. The groundskeeper won’t be through until tomorrow.
But something’s different today.
“Frank.” I grab his arm tighter. “Look.”
The path to Emily’s grave is already cleared, a neat rectangle of snow swept away around her stone. Fresh flowers — winter roses, her favorite — rest against the marble. Their color stands out against the snow like drops of blood.
“Maybe the groundskeeper…” Frank starts, but his voice trails off. We both know Jenkins doesn’t work Sundays, and he certainly doesn’t leave flowers.
“Not usually,” I whisper. Who else would come? “Do you think…?” I can’t finish the thought.
I miss Emily so much.
Frank shakes his head. “No. I don’t.” He clears his throat. “Emily? It’s been a long year —”
A twig snaps behind us.
“I always loved how you started with that.” The voice is young, female. “Every year, the same opening.”
We turn. A woman about the age Emily should be stands between the snow-laden trees. She’s wearing a coat and boots, snuggled up against the chill of the snowy morning.
“Who —” I start, but Frank’s sharp intake of breath stops me.
“You’re the girl from the other car,” he says. “The one that —”
“Survived. Yes.” She steps forward, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I’m Grace. I’ve been coming here every year, listening to you talk to her. I hope that’s okay.” She twists her hands together. “I never knew how to introduce myself before. I always stayed back, hid.”
“You’ve been taking care of her grave?” I ask, pointing to the roses.
Grace nods. “Emily saved my life that night. She turned the wheel at the last second, took the impact instead of —” She stops, tears freezing on her cheeks. “She’s the reason I became a trauma surgeon. Every life I save, I tell her about it. Right after you leave.”
Snow swirls in the air, and the golden light of winter wraps around us like an embrace.
Emily wants this. She wants us to know each other.
“Would you like to stay?” I hear myself asking. “While we talk to her?”
Grace’s smile is like sunrise on snow. “I’d like that. I have some stories of my own to share this year.”
Frank blinks. “And then come back to our house for pancakes, please? They were Emily’s favorite.”
Grace’s smile widens. “It would be my pleasure.”
Image made with Midjourney.
Flash Fiction written by S. J. Pajonas with assistance from Claude 3.5 Sonnet.
You can listen to this story on YouTube at https://youtu.be/zpyGUQCbeyc
