How long have I been here? The green-eyed girl wondered as she lay on the soft grass, staring up at the sky. The summer breeze rustled the leaves above, but she felt nothing. Far off, birds flew in graceful arcs, their calls distant and unclear, much like the memories she once had. She wasn't sure how long she had been here—time seemed to pass differently now.

The cemetery was quiet, its rows of headstones standing solemnly under the afternoon sun. She was alone, surrounded only by the graves of the dead. But then, she wasn't really alone. She was one of them.

A faint sound of footsteps broke the silence, drawing her attention. She sat up, her form barely disturbing the blades of grass beneath her. An old woman approached slowly, her back slightly bent with age. In her frail hands, she carried a bouquet of red roses, the vibrant petals a splash of color in the otherwise muted world.

The woman came often, always to the same grave—a weathered stone just a few feet away from the girl's resting place. It was where her husband was buried, a man who had passed many years before. The girl watched as the woman carefully placed the roses at the base of the headstone, her fingers lingering on the rough surface as she whispered to her late husband.

The girl had seen this scene unfold countless times, yet each time it moved her. The old woman spoke of her life, of their children and grandchildren, of the loneliness she felt now that he was gone. Tears glistened in her eyes as she shared stories only he would understand. After some time, she would sigh, kiss her fingers, and press them to the cold stone, saying goodbye until her next visit.

How long had the girl observed this? She had lost track. The old woman always returned, carrying with her the same sorrow, the same love. It was a love that had outlasted death, a love that brought her back to this place again and again.

The girl sighed softly, her voice barely more than a whisper in the wind. The man had been so fortunate to have someone who loved him so deeply, even after he was gone. The girl wished she had known that kind of love in life, but it was too late for her to regret it now. She had never loved anyone but her family, and even those memories were fading, slipping away like sand through her fingers.

As the old woman slowly made her way back down the path, the girl watched her go, a faint smile on her lips. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the cemetery, but the girl didn't move. She lay back down on the grass, her green eyes closing as the world around her dimmed. This was her home now, a place where the living seldom lingered but where memories lived on. And though she was no longer part of the world she once knew, she found comfort in the enduring love she witnessed, day after day, from the other side.

Footsteps echoed through the quiet cemetery once more, and the girl immediately recognized them. This wasn't the first time she had seen the young man approaching. He had become a familiar presence in this lonely place, his visits a small comfort in her otherwise isolated existence.

He was tall and handsome, with striking black hair that contrasted sharply with his pale skin. His deep-set eyes were a piercing shade of blue, filled with an intensity that always made her pause. There was something both comforting and sorrowful in his gaze as he walked toward the row of graves.

He carried five bouquets of white roses, just as he always did. The girl watched closely, already knowing his routine. He wore a simple black suit, well-tailored and neat, as if he were attending a solemn event. His presence commanded attention, yet he moved with a quiet grace, careful not to disturb the stillness around him.

First, he knelt by her parents' graves, placing a bouquet on each. His movements were deliberate, almost reverent, as he lingered for a moment before moving on to her sisters' graves. The girl felt a strange warmth in her chest as she watched him. Each time he visited, she found herself wondering more about him. Who was he? Why did he come here so often, always with the same white roses?

Finally, as he had done so many times before, he came to her grave. He paused, holding the last bouquet of white roses in his hands. His blue eyes lingered on her headstone, and for a moment, the sadness in his expression deepened. It was as if he were mourning a loss that he couldn't fully explain. He gently laid the bouquet on her grave, then stood there in silence, as if offering a wordless prayer.

'Who are you?' the girl thought as she watched him, her spirit unable to voice the questions swirling in her mind. 'Do you feel sorry for us? Did you know us when we were alive?'

The man didn't answer, of course. He couldn't hear her thoughts, and after a few moments, he turned and walked away, his figure slowly fading into the distance until he disappeared from her sight. The girl watched him go, a mixture of curiosity and longing filling her, just as it did every time he left.

She lay back down on the grass, her gaze returning to the sky above. Even though she had died alongside her entire family, she remained here alone, bound to this place where the living seldom visited. Yet the man's daily visits brought a small comfort to her otherwise lonely existence. She didn't know who he was or why he came, but his presence made her feel remembered, even in death.

And so, she waited, day after day, hoping to catch another glimpse of the mysterious man who brought white roses to her grave.

As Charlie walked into police headquarters, his colleagues greeted him with respectful nods. He acknowledged them briefly and took his seat at his desk. Soon after, a subordinate approached with a stack of documents for him to sign.

''Good morning, Chief. We've got a new case,'' she said, placing the papers on his desk.

Charlie nodded and began signing the documents, signaling for her to continue.

''The victim was a drug dealer,'' she began. ''He was shot twice in his home. The neighbor heard the shots and called us around 6 a.m. He'd only been living there for three months—the house belonged to someone who owed him money. No one in the area knew about his criminal background. The autopsy report should be ready in about two hours.''

Charlie listened closely, his pen moving steadily across the forms. ''Got it,'' he replied quietly.

Charlie was known for his few words and sharp instincts. Despite being the youngest leader on the police team, he had earned their respect through his quiet determination.

''I know you're frustrated, Chief,'' his subordinate said gently. ''We haven't caught the killer yet.''

She knew their leader was struggling with a particular case, disheartened by their lack of progress. After five years, there were still no leads or evidence.

Will this case remain unsolved, forgotten like so many others? she thought, shaking her head. ''Even if we don't find the killer, justice will come in time'' she added, trying to offer comfort.

Charlie looked up, his gaze softening as he met her eyes. ''You're right. Thank you.'' She smiled, giving him a reassuring nod before returning to her work.

After she left, Charlie took out a red file from his desk drawer—the case that still haunted him. Memories of that day came flooding back.

It was a cold morning when they got the call. A servant had reported the murder. When Charlie and his team arrived at the scene, they were met with a horrifying sight. Five bodies lay scattered in the living room, each a grim reminder of the violence that had occurred.

The house, once warm and inviting, now resembled a war zone. Furniture was overturned, glass was shattered, and blood stained the walls.

But what shattered Charlie the most was seeing her—his crush—lying on the floor, face up, near her mother's feet. Her golden hair fanned out around her head like a halo. Her white dress, soaked in blood and torn, barely covered her, telling of unspeakable violence. She had been shot straight in the heart.

Nearby, an older girl was slumped against the couch, with three gunshot wounds visible. Her brown eyes stared blankly, frozen in terror. Charlie gently closed her eyes with his hand.

On the couch opposite, a little girl lay barely dressed, her small body bruised and bloodied. She had been strangled, with signs of violence clear on her body. Her hands were marked from being tightly held. There were no fingerprints—perhaps the killer had worn gloves.

The parents were tied to chairs, facing away from each other, forced to witness the horrors inflicted on their children before being shot themselves.

With trembling hands, Charlie covered the little girl and his crush with white blankets. Tears streamed down his face, emotions he could no longer control. Despite his training to remain professional, this crime had shattered him and his team.

Charlie closed the red file, feeling the weight of the unsolved case. The memory of that tragic day would never leave him. Even though the case was officially closed, he knew he couldn't rest until the killer was found.

The Miller family was among the wealthiest in the city, ranking in the top five. The father owned businesses worldwide, and the mother was a successful fashion designer with stores everywhere. Despite having rivals, no evidence linked any of them to the murder.

Their eldest daughter, Parel, worked with her father, while Silver, the middle daughter, helped her mother. The youngest, Ruby, was still in elementary school. The Millers were known for their beauty and intelligence. Their murder shocked the community, leaving everyone in disbelief that such a powerful family could be targeted.

''Even if the case is closed, I won't stop until I find your killer,'' Charlie whispered as he gazed at Silver's picture.

Charlie's pursuit of justice was driven by deep personal pain. He had silently loved Silver Miller from afar, never finding the courage to tell her. Her kindness and intelligence had always impressed him, and now her image haunted his thoughts, a reminder of the innocence that had been stolen.

Each time he placed white roses on her grave, it was a tribute to the love he had kept hidden and a way to honor her memory. Even as the official investigation ended, Charlie's sorrow remained a private torment. His love for Silver and his determination to bring her killer to justice were intertwined, driving him forward in his relentless search for the truth.