After her husband died, Irina visited his grave every weekend—cleaning the headstone, pulling weeds, placing fresh flowers.

One morning, she noticed someone else standing by the grave: a woman in her forties, gently wiping dust from the stone and touching the photo with care—almost like an apology.

Irina didn’t approach. A year passed before she saw the stranger again—on her husband’s birthday.

“Excuse me… did you know my husband?” she asked, expecting to hear the worst.

The woman looked up, eyes full of sorrow.

“I was the driver… when it happened.”

Irina’s world spun. She listened in silence as the woman explained: she had called the ambulance, stayed through the investigation, was found not guilty. “But that doesn’t matter,” she said. “I live with it every day.”

Irina opened the accident report in her hands—confirmation of everything.

“You’ve been coming here?” she asked quietly.

“Yes. I never expected forgiveness.”

Irina stared at the grave, tears in her eyes. “He was stubborn. I told him not to cross there.”

Then, turning to the woman: “Go. Not because I hate you. But because he wouldn’t want you to carry this forever.”

The woman nodded—and walked away without a word.