The ward corridor was drenched in the blinding glare of a lateafternoon sun. Mary blinked, and when she opened her eyes her heart seemed to stop, then gallop away.
There he was, striding toward herher husband, the very man whose smile she could trace down to the tiniest crinkles around his eyes. Yet that could not be, for three long years he had been gone from this world.
Now the ghosts are playing tricks on me, she thought, clenching the strap of her bag as hard as she could, trying to yank herself back to reality.
The stranger drew nearer, and it was unmistakable how much he resembled her late husband. Height, gait, the set of his cheekbones only his gaze was steadier, a shade more severe. He looked straight at her, unblinking, his astonishment mirroring that of someone who had just caught sight of a phantom.
A warm flush rose to Marys cheeks. Lowering her eyes in embarrassment, she slipped past him into the ward where her Aunt Eleanor lay recovering after surgeryshe was his only surviving relative, and he needed specialised care.
Their next encounter took place in the dressing room. Mary wheeled an empty trolley past when she saw him again, dressed in a white coat, murmuring something to a nurse. The squeak of the wheels made him look up, and he froze, his stare as direct and inquisitive as it had been the day before.
Dr. Spencer, the nurse called brightly, breaking the awkward silence. All set?
Thank you, he replied with a nod, though his eyes remained fixed on Mary.
Flushed with embarrassment, she pushed the trolley onward, feeling as foolish as a schoolgirl caught in a crush.
Days dripped by in the hospital, each one slower than the last. They kept crossing glances in the hallways. Whenever she saw him, a childlike joy bubbled up inside her, bright as a summer morning. Dr. Spencer sometimes visited Aunt Eleanors bedside, always courteous and professional, yet his gaze inevitably lingered on Mary a heartbeat longer than propriety demanded.
One evening, just as her son Tommy was about to begin his night shift, Mary slipped into the lobby for a glass of water. By the window stood Dr. Spencer, watching the city dim as dusk settled over London.
Your son? he asked softly, turning. The young man who looks after Mrs. Parker?
Yes, Mary nodded, surprised he knew her aunts name. Tommy. Hes a bit of a joker, but hes goldenhearted and caring.
The doctors smile was achingly familiar.
He loves you very much. You can see it.
A shiver ran through Marys chest, a tremor she thought she had long since forgotten. The body ages, but the sensations remain as fresh and sharp as they were in youth.
Indeed, she mumbled, cheeks pink. Just dont tell himIm too proud.
He laughed, a warm, alive sound.
My name is Andrew. Andrew Spencer.
Margaret, she replied, the name feeling both ancient and new.
At that moment Tommy burst into the lobby, a bag of scones flinging open.
Mum, hello! Doctor! Ive brought the treat I promiseddont mind the cabbage, its leftover.
Andrew accepted a scone gratefully, and Mary caught his quick, appraising glance at her son.
The following day the chatter of the nurses told Mary that Dr. Spencer had fallen ill and was on sick leave. Something dropped in her gut. So it wasnt meant to be, she thought with a bitter resignation, perhaps its for the bestno awkward goodbyes, no haunting whatifs, only pleasant memories. Yet even that felt a lot: she realised that grief does not last forever, and that brighter days lay ahead.
Aunt Eleanor was discharged three days later. As Mary packed her belongings, she tried not to dwell on the emptiness that waited beyond the hospital walls. She was saying farewell not only to the place but also to the phantom possibility that had never materialised.
Tommy, loading the car, suddenly blurted out, You know, Dr. Spencer is a widower. His wife died in a crash three years ago.
Mary stopped dead in her tracks. Three years. Coincidence? Fate?
How do you know? she whispered.
We struck up conversation over the scones, Tommy shrugged. He asked about my dad, very politely. You could tell he was a lonely man, and the way he looked at you not like a doctor, more like someone yearning.
Silently, Mary slipped into the passenger seat. Hope fluttered anew in her heart.
At home, silence greeted her. She brewed a cup of tea and settled by the window, watching the familiar garden. Then she spotted an envelope on the table she didnt remember placing thereTommys doing, perhaps.
Inside lay a card depicting an old hospital, unmistakably the one they had just left. Trembling, Mary unfolded it.
Margaret,
I know this may sound mad, and Im sorry I fell ill and couldnt say goodbye properly. Three years ago I lost my beloved. When I saw you in the corridor, it felt as if the sun rose a second time in a single day.
I am not your husband. I am another man, with my own pain and story. Yet perhaps our stories could share a future?
If this does not strike you as utterly absurd, I will be at the Harbor café opposite the park at five tomorrow evening.
With hope,
Andrew
Tears welled in Marys eyes, but they were tears of happiness. She was not alone in that strange feeling; he felt it too, and he had the courage to take a step she had never dared to imagine.
The next day, halfpast four, she stood before the mirror, smoothing her dress nervously.
Mom, you look lovely! Tommy called from the kitchen. Dont overquestion the past, alright? The future matters more.
She smiled.
The Harbor café was snug, smelling of fresh pastries. Andrew was already there, seated by the window, anxiously scanning the menu. When he saw her enter, he rose, and the familiar, yet fresh, smile blossomed on his face.
I feared you wouldnt come, he said, pulling out a chair for her.
I worried youd regret writing that letter, Mary admitted as she sat.
Not a moment, Andrew shook his head. His eyes were earnest. You know, the first time I saw you it felt like a miracle, a reminder that life does not end.
I felt the same, Mary whispered. It was as if a warm wind from the past brushed my cheek, yet it was not the past at all. Something new.
He reached across the table, and she took his hand; his palm was warm.
Lets try, Margaret, he said gently. No rush. Just try to be happy together.
Looking into the eyes of a man who had walked through the same valleys of sorrow yet still clung to hope, she nodded. For the first time in three long years she felt not sorrow for what was lost, but a bright, trembling anticipation of what might come. It was her happy ending, which in truth was a beginninga new chapter in a story that had finally turned its page.
