The red gloves were always there. Every time I visited my father’s grave, a neatly placed pair of crimson gloves awaited me. The mystery haunted me. Finally, I decided to discover the truth by arriving at the cemetery hours before my usual time. I found a young boy, placing the gloves with quiet reverence.
When I approached, he was hesitant. But as he spoke, a heartbreakingly beautiful story unfolded. The boy, Lucas, was an orphan. He had met my father one winter day years ago. Seeing Lucas cold and without gloves, my father had given him his own. That small act of kindness sparked a friendship. My father, perceptive and patient, taught the boy how to knit, giving him a skill and a sense of peace.
The red gloves were Lucas’s creation. He made them as a tribute, leaving each new pair on the grave of the man who had been his unexpected mentor and friend. My fear of a dark family secret was replaced by the profound truth of my father’s character. He had quietly changed a child’s life, and in return, that child was ensuring his memory would never grow cold. The gloves were not a mystery to be solved, but a lesson in the enduring power of simple compassion.
