“I came to visit my sister. She d:ied in a car accident… four years ago.”

My heart stopped. I read the tombstone:

Gabriela Ramírez – 1992-2019.

The exact same date as Mariana’s d:eath.

“Your sister… d:ied the same day as my wife.”

She opened her eyes, surprised, and stared at me:

“Your wife also d:ied that day?”

I nodded and told her what happened.

Her eyes filled with tears as she placed a bouquet of white lilies on her sister’s grave.

“That day, Gabriela was traveling with a friend… I didn’t think it would be her last trip. She told me, crying.”

The silence of the cemetery enveloped us. I felt a strange connection, as if the grief of two strangers had met by chance.

When he said goodbye, he said,