June 12th
The wards corridor was flooded with the harsh glare of the earlyafternoon sun. I blinked shut for a heartbeat, and when I opened my eyes my heart seemed to halt, then surge like a galloping horse.
There he was, walking toward memy husband. The exact smile I could picture down to the tiniest crinkles around his eyes. It could not be, of course; he has been gone for three long years.
Ghosts, huh? the thought flickered, and I clutched the strap of my bag tighter, trying to yank myself back into reality.
He drew nearer, and it was unmistakable that he resembled James in every wayheight, gait, the set of his jawonly his stare was colder, more restrained. Yet he fixed his gaze on me, unblinking, as if he too had glimpsed a phantom.
Heat flushed my cheeks. I lowered my eyes shyly and slipped past him toward the room where my Aunt Margaret lay recovering after surgery; she has no one but me, and she needs constant care.
The next encounter with the ghost took place in the dressing room. I pushed an empty trolley in when I saw him, a man in a white coat murmuring to a nurse. The squeak of the wheels stopped him; he looked up and froze, his eyes as direct and probing as they had been yesterday.
Dr. Clarke? the nurse asked, breaking the uneasy silence. Is that all?
Yes, thank you, he replied with a nod, though his gaze remained fixed on me.
Blushing, I wheeled the trolley onward, feeling foolish as a schoolgirl.
Days at the hospital drummed on slowly. Our eyes kept meeting in the hallways, and each time a childish delight sparked inside me, lifting my spirit. Dr. Clarke sometimes visited Aunt Margarets bedalways courteous and professionalbut his look would linger on me a fraction longer than necessary.
One evening, just as my son Tommy was about to start his night shift, I stepped into the lobby for a glass of water. By the window stood Dr. Clarke, staring out at the dimming city.
Your son? he asked quietly, turning toward me. The young man who checks in on Aunt Margaret?
Yes, I nodded, surprised that he knew her name. Tommy. Hes a bit of a rascal, but a golden onealways looking after me.
He smiled, a smile that felt painfully familiar.
He loves you a great deal. You can see it.
Something knocked in my chesta tremor I had long forgotten. The body ages, but the sensations stay fresh and sharp, like they did in youth.
Indeed, I murmured, embarrassed, just dont tell himI dont want him getting a big head.
He laughed, a warm, lively sound.
My name is Andrew. Andrew Clarke.
Emily, I replied.
Just then Tommy burst into the lobby, brandishing a bag of pastries.
Mum, hi! Doctor! I brought the promised treatsdont mind the cabbage leftover.
Andrew took a pastry gratefully, and I caught Tommys quick, assessing glance at me.
The following day the nurses chattered that Dr. Clarke had fallen ill and was on sick leave. A hollow settled over me. So it wasnt meant to be, I thought with a bitter resignation. Perhaps its for the bestno awkward goodbyes, no lingering whatifs. Only pleasant memories. Yet even that was a lot to bear; I realized grief does not last forever, and perhaps brighter days lay ahead.
Aunt Margaret was discharged three days later. As I packed her belongings, I tried not to dwell on the emptiness that awaited beyond the hospital walls. I was saying farewell not just to the place, but to the phantom possibility that never materialised.
Tommy, loading the car, blurted out, You know, Dr. Clarke is a widower. His wife died in a crash three years ago.
I froze. Three years. Coincidence? Fate?
How do you know? I asked softly.
We talked over the pastries, Tommy shrugged. He asked about his dadvery politely. You could tell he was alone. And the way he looks at you not like a doctor.
Silently I slipped into the passenger seat, a fresh spark of hope flickering in my heart.
At home the house was quiet. I brewed tea and settled by the window, watching the familiar garden. Then my eyes landed on an envelope on the table I didnt remember placing thereTommys, perhaps.
Inside was a card depicting an old hospital much like the one wed just left. My trembling fingers unfolded it.
Emily,
I know this may sound mad, and Im sorry I fell ill and couldnt say goodbye properly. I cant let you simply disappear. Three years ago I lost my love, and when I saw you in the corridor, it felt like the sun rose twice in one day.
I am not your husband. I am another man, with my own pain and story. Yet perhaps our stories could continue together?
If this isnt utterly absurd to you, Ill be at The Edge café opposite the park tomorrow at five.
With hope,
Andrew
Tears welled uptears of happiness. I wasnt alone in this strange feeling; he felt it too, and he had the courage to step forward where I had been too frightened to even imagine.
The next morning, at half past four, I stood before the mirror, nervously smoothing my dress.
Mom, you look gorgeous! Tommy shouted from the kitchen. Just dont overquestion the past, okay? The future matters more.
I smiled.
The Edge café was cozy, the air scented with fresh scones. Andrew was already there, hunched at a window table, studying the menu. When he saw me enter, he rose, and the same familiar yet new smile blossomed on his face.
I was afraid you wouldnt come, he said, pulling out a chair.
I feared youd regret writing that letter, I admitted as I sat down.
Not a second, he shook his head, his eyes earnest. You know, the first time I saw you it felt like a miracle, a reminder that life doesnt end there.
I felt the same, I whispered. As if a warm breeze from the past blew through, but it wasnt the pastsomething fresh.
He reached across the table; his hand was warm as he took mine.
Lets try, Emily, he said gently. No rush. Just try to be happy together.
Looking into his eyesthe eyes of a man who had walked the same painful road yet never gave up hopeI nodded. For the first time in three long years, I felt not sorrow for what was lost, but a bright, trembling anticipation of what might come. It was my happy ending, which turned out to be the beginning of a new story.
