Every week, without fail, a young widow would visit her late husband’s grave. She brought fresh flowers, carefully arranged them, wiped the marble headstone clean, and spent a few moments in quiet reflection, as if time itself paused in that sacred place.
One man, a regular at the cemetery tending to his family’s graves, took notice of her routine. Over time, his curiosity grew—not just for her devotion, but for one odd habit: every time she left, she walked forward without once looking back.
His curiosity eventually got the better of him. One afternoon, as she finished her ritual and began to leave, he decided to approach her.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said softly. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I’ve noticed how lovingly you care for your husband’s grave. It’s truly touching. But there’s one thing that’s puzzled me—you never turn around when you leave. Why is that?”
The widow paused, raised an eyebrow, and flashed a sly smile.
“Well, sir,” she said, her eyes twinkling, “my husband always joked that my backside was so stunning, it could raise the dead.”
She let the moment linger before adding with a playful grin:
“I just don’t want to take any chances.”
The man was stunned for a moment before bursting into laughter. The widow winked, turned gracefully, and walked away, leaving him both amused and speechless.
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