The Sins You Buried Beneath My Wedding Bed
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Summary
It was the week before New Year's Eve when Denise, a fellow teacher, suddenly appeared at my desk with a bouquet of flowers, insisting they were for me.
The card contained only a few sparse words: "Wishing Shirley a happy New Year."
The signature was a simple, single English letter: "B."
One look was all it took. I recognized his handwriting instantly, and the ghost of his face flashed in my mind.
Against my will, the memories—those wretched, deeply buried things—began to claw their way back up.
My fingers, gripping the small card, tightened into a white-knuckled fist.
