**Title: The White Flower at My Door**

I still remember clearly the first morning she appeared. It was a gray, foggy day in early spring, and a light rain was falling. When I opened the door to go to work, there she was—a woman with silver hair, a dirty gray coat, tattered shoes, a blank look in her eyes. In her hand she held a **white flower**, trembling as if it were about to break.

“Do you… remember me?” she asked hoarsely.

I was stunned. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

She just looked at me, smiled strangely, and then turned away. But the next morning, and the mornings after that—**she was still standing there**, in the same spot at my door, silent, staring.

—

At first, I thought she was homeless. I lived alone in the suburbs of Portland, a small, quiet, two-story house with few people passing by. As a software engineer, I barely left the house to go to work or buy groceries. Her presence made me feel uneasy, even scared.

I called the police. They came, said she hadn’t broken any laws – she was just standing on a public sidewalk. I asked them to take her away, but she returned the next day, as if she had **never left**.

The strange thing was, **every Saturday morning** she disappeared. Without a trace. No one saw her come or go. On Sunday evening, she reappeared, in the same place, standing silently under a yellow light, holding a white flower.

Six months passed. Six months of haunting.

—

My friends told me to move. But I didn’t. Partly out of curiosity, partly… the strange feeling in her eyes. Like I **owed** her something.

One night, around 2am, I heard a noise. When she came out, she was still standing there, looking through the living room window. Not moving. The rain was pouring down her hair, but she didn’t bother to move.

I shouted: “What do you want?!”

She just whispered:
“This Saturday… I’ll tell you. But don’t close the door.”

—

On Saturday morning, she disappeared as usual. I didn’t expect anything more, until that evening, when there was a knock on the door.

Three times — slow, heavy, and decisive.

I opened the door.

She stood there, **clothes soaked, feet covered in mud**, hair stuck to her forehead. In her hand was still **the white flower**, but this time, the petals were stained red — whether mud or blood, I didn’t know.

“You… are alive,” she said, her voice trembling. “Thank God…”

I stepped back. “What did you say?”

She looked up, her eyes cloudy with tears. “You really don’t remember me? I’m Evelyn. Rebecca’s mother.”

I was stunned.

Rebecca — that name stabbed into my memory like a knife. I never forgot.

—

Seven years ago, when I was in college, I met Rebecca at a party. She was the only person who made me believe I could truly love. Everything seemed perfect — until **that night**.

On the way home, we argued. I had been drinking, driving too fast. The car lost control, went down the hill by the lake. I was slightly injured. Rebecca… didn’t escape.

I spent three years in prison for causing death by driving. After I got out, I moved to this house — trying to forget everything. I never dared to meet her mother.

—

Mrs. Evelyn held up the flower, trembling. “I forgave you a long time ago. But I need to know one thing… Have you ever seen her… again?”

I was stunned. “What did you say?”

She stepped back, her eyes panicked. “Rebecca… she didn’t go on. I saw her, here, around this house. Every time I stood in front of your door, I could feel her breath. She wouldn’t forgive me, wouldn’t let you go.”

The air was cold. I could hear the wind whistling through the crack in the door, and… the smell of white flowers—the familiar scent of **lilies of the valley**, Rebecca’s favorite.

I swallowed. “You’re lying.”

She smiled weakly. “Why do you think I only disappear on Saturdays?”

I didn’t answer.

She came forward and placed the flower in my hand. “That day, the accident happened on Saturday night. I always come here six days a week, praying for her soul. But every Saturday, I… go to the place where the car crashed. There, someone still leaves white flowers on the shore of the lake.”

I was stunned. I never went back there. But who?

“Not me.” I exclaimed.

“Then who, if not you?”

She looked at me, her eyes piercing my soul. “Rebecca hasn’t gone anywhere.”

—

That night, I didn’t sleep. I stared at the white flower on the table. The wind blew through the window, the petals swaying as if someone had touched them.

Near dawn, I dreamed of Rebecca—her long hair soaked, her eyes wide open under the water, looking at me with pain. She raised her hand, as if she wanted to say something, but only three words came out:
**“Don’t believe me.”**

I woke up in a cold sweat.

—

The next day, I went to the lake. The fog was thick, the water surface was as smooth as a mirror. I looked around, and sure enough — there was a fresh bouquet of white flowers on the shore, and a wet, smudged note:

“Sorry for lying.”**

I looked up, and saw Evelyn standing on the other side of the lake.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” she shouted. “Go away! She’s mad!”

A wind whistled. I looked down into the water — **something moved**. Bubbles rose, and a pale hand reached out and tugged at my ankle. I screamed, and fell into the icy water.

In that moment, I saw Rebecca’s face clearly in the corner of my eye

to the water – eyes wide open, hair flying. She raised her hand, pointing to the shore.

I turned around. Evelyn was standing there, **smiling**.

—

I tried to swim up, but the weight pulled me down. When I woke up, I was in the hospital. The person who saved me was… Mrs. Evelyn.

The police said she called the ambulance in time, saving me from drowning. They said she had been suffering from mild mental illness since her daughter’s death. Sometimes she imagined that Rebecca was still alive, still around me.

I didn’t know who to believe anymore.

Three days after being discharged from the hospital, I returned home. On the table was the **withered white flower**, still in the same place. I picked it up with trembling hands — and noticed that the tabletop was covered with something dark red like dried blood.

I turned around — **Evelyn was standing in the living room.**

She was soaked, her eyes sunken, her lips pale.
“I’m sorry, but I have to tell you the truth…”

She stepped forward, her voice trembling:
“Rebecca didn’t die in an accident. She was still alive when they pulled her to shore. But I… I didn’t give her a chance.”

I was stunned.

She screamed, tears streaming down her face:
“I hate her for loving you! For making her leave her family, drop out of school! When the doctor said she was still breathing, I… took out the breathing tube.”

The air froze. I backed away, my ears ringing.

“Do you understand?” she said, her voice breaking. “She came to me, not you. For the past six months, she’s made me stand here to atone. But tonight, she wants to see you one last time.”

—

The ceiling light flickered. Wind blew through the crack in the door.

I heard footsteps on the second floor—soft, slow, wet.

The bedroom door opened. The scent of lilies filled the air. And then, **Rebecca** came out, her hair dripping with water, her white dress muddy, her eyes without irises.

I collapsed. Evelyn was sobbing, on her knees.

Rebecca went over, put her hand on her mother’s head, whispered something — then looked at me. Her voice was as soft as a breath:
“I forgive you. But my mother doesn’t.”

There was a bang. The glass shattered.

I blacked out.

—

When I woke up, the police said **Evelyn was dead** — her heart stopped on the spot, there was no sign of assault. No one believed my story. All they found was a **soaked white flower** in her lap, and a note that read:
**“I forgive you, Mom.”**

I moved out of that house a week later. But every Saturday morning, when I wake up, I still find **a new lily of the valley** on the doorstep, lightly fragrant, even though I live nearly 200 miles away.

And each time, I hear a voice whispering through the wind:
**“You still miss me… don’t you?”**