Every time I visited my father’s grave, I noticed a pair of red gloves placed carefully on the tombstone

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Every time I went to my father’s grave, I noticed a pair of red gloves, always carefully placed on the tombstone. A persistent question tormented me: who was leaving these gloves, and why?

One day, driven by a strange feeling, I decided to arrive earlier than usual. A young boy was standing there, near the grave, silently placing the pair of red gloves.

It was the first time I had seen him. He seemed to be alone, and he was crying.

Before I approached, a thought crossed my mind: did my father have a secret affair that no one had ever spoken of? What if this child was his son, the one no one knew about?

I didn’t want to scare him. I approached slowly, greeting him in a calm, almost friendly tone. He looked at me, his eyes filled with sadness. After a moment, he nodded slightly in response.

Then, I asked him questions. And what he revealed to me… shattered all my certainties. The truth that unfolded before me was far more cruel than anything I could have imagined.

The boy, with a trembling voice, began to tell his story.

He explained that he had been an orphan since his early childhood.

He lived in a foster home, but his life seemed to be marked by a void he couldn’t fill.

Two winters ago, by a twist of fate, he had crossed paths with my father.

That day, my father, seeing that he was without gloves on a freezing cold day, had offered him a pair of gloves he often wore.

Lucas confessed to me that this simple gesture had deeply touched him.

It wasn’t just the act of charity that moved him, but also the comforting words my father had offered him that day.

Over the months, a relationship had formed between them.

My father, seeing Lucas as a fragile young boy, had taught him the art of knitting.

He had shown him how to create delicate pieces, woven with patience and care.

In tribute to the man who had guided him through his darkest hours, Lucas had decided to leave those gloves on his grave.

They were the work of his hands, a silent tribute to the one who had helped him rise again.