14October2025 Diary
The hospital wing at StThomas in London was flooded with the harsh glare of the earlyafternoon sun. Mary blinked shut her eyes for a split second; when she opened them her heart seemed to stop, then race like a runaway horse.
She saw him walking toward herher husband. The same smile she could picture down to the tiniest crinkles around his eyes. It should have been impossible; it had been three long years since he was taken from this world.
Ah, the mind throws up spectres, I thought, and I watched her clutch the strap of her handbag as hard as she could, trying to yank herself back to reality.
The man drew nearer, and it was unmistakable how closely he matched her late husband: the height, the gait, the set of his jaw. His gaze, however, was a little harsher, more restrained. He stared straight at Mary, his eyes wide with the same startled wonder as if he, too, had glimpsed a ghost.
A hot flush spread across Marys cheeks. She lowered her eyes shyly and slipped past him into the ward where her Aunt Eleanor lay recovering after surgery. Eleanor lived alone, and after the operation she needed constant care, so Mary was the only family she had.
The next encounter with the spectre happened in the dressing room. Mary was pushing an empty trolley when she saw him again, this time in a white coat, murmuring something to a nurse. The squeak of the trolley wheels caught his attention; he lifted his head and froze, his stare as direct and inquisitive as the day before.
DrSullivan, the nurse called brightly, breaking the awkward silence. Is that all for today?
Yes, thank you, he replied with a nod, though his eyes never left Mary.
Flushed and embarrassed, Mary hurried past with the trolley, feeling like a foolish schoolgirl.
Days at the hospital crawled by. Their eyes kept meeting in the corridors, and each time Mary felt a childish delight rise in her chest. DrSullivan would often pop into the ward to check on Aunt Eleanor, always courteous and professional, yet his glance would linger on Mary a fraction longer than necessary.
One evening, as the night shift was about to begin and her son Jamie was due to arrive for his rounds, Mary stepped into the lounge to fetch a glass of water. There, by the window, stood DrSullivan, looking out over the dimming city.
Your son? he asked quietly, turning toward her. The young man who visits Aunt Eleanor?
Yes, Mary answered, surprised that he knew her aunts name. Jamie. Hes a bit of a cheeky lad, but a golden onealways looking after us.
He smiled, a smile that felt painfully familiar.
He loves you very much. You can see it.
Something stirred in Marys chest, a tremor she hadnt felt in years. The body ages, but the feelings remain as fresh and sharp as in youth.
Indeed, she murmured, cheeks reddening. Just dont tell him I said that, hell get a big head about it.
He laughed, a warm, lively sound.
My name is AlexSullivan, he said.
Mary, she replied.
Just then Jamie burst into the lounge, waving a bag of pork pies.
Mum, hello! Doctor! I brought the treats I promised. Sorry, only the cabbage ones left.
Alex took a pie gratefully, and Mary caught his glance on her sonquick, appraising, understanding.
The following day, chatting nurses mentioned that DrSullivan had fallen ill and was on sick leave. A hollow feeling settled over Mary. So it wasnt meant to be, she thought with a bitter resignation. Perhaps its better this wayno awkward goodbyes, no lingering whatifs. Only pleasant memories. Yet even that thought carried weight: mourning does not last forever, and the future would inevitably improve.
Aunt Eleanor was discharged after three days. While packing her belongings, Mary tried not to dwell on the emptiness that waited beyond the hospital walls. She was saying goodbye not just to the place, but to the phantom possibility that never materialised.
As Jamie loaded the car, he suddenly said, You know, DrSullivan is a widower. His wife died in a crash three years ago.
Mary froze, as if nailed to the pavement. Three years. Coincidence? Fate?
How do you know? she asked softly.
We chatted while we were sharing the pies, Jamie shrugged. He asked about my dad, very politely. You could tell he was alone. And the way he looks at you not like a doctor.
Mary slipped into the passenger seat, hope stirring again in her heart.
At home the house was quiet. She brewed a cup of tea and sat by the window, watching the familiar garden. Then she noticed an envelope on the table she hadnt placed thereperhaps Jamies doing.
Inside was a card featuring an old hospital building that looked just like the one theyd just left. With trembling fingers Mary opened it.
Mary,
I realise this may sound mad, and Im sorry I fell ill and couldnt say goodbye properly. Three years ago I lost my love, and when I saw you in the corridor it felt as if 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 have a shared continuation?
If this isnt utterly absurd to you, I will be at five oclock tomorrow in the Edge café opposite the park.
With hope, Alex.
Tears streamed from Marys eyes, but they were tears of happiness. She wasnt alone in this strange feeling; he felt it too, and he had the courage to take a step she had never even imagined.
The next morning, at half past four, she stood before the mirror, nervously smoothing her dress.
Mate, you look brilliant! Jamie shouted from the kitchen. Just dont overquestion the past, okay? The future matters more.
She smiled.
The Edge café was snug, the air scented with freshly baked scones. Alex was already there, seated by the window, his expression tense as he reviewed the menu. When he saw her enter, he rose, and his face broke into that familiar yet renewed smile.
I was afraid you wouldnt come, he said, pulling out a chair.
I feared youd regret sending that letter, Mary admitted, sitting down.
No second of regret, Alex shook his head. His eyes were serious. You know, the first time I saw you it felt like a miracle, a reminder that life doesnt end.
I felt the same, Mary whispered. It was as if a warm wind from the past brushed my face, but it wasnt the past. It was something new.
He reached across the table, and she took his hand; his palm was warm.
Lets try, Mary, he said. No rush. Just try to be happy together.
She met his gazeeyes of a man who had walked through the same pain she had, yet still clung to hopeand 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. That was my happy ending, which in truth marked a beginning the start of a new story.
Lesson learned: When the world seems to have closed a door, sometimes a quiet knock at a different door is all it takes to remind us that hope never truly leaves; it merely waits for us to notice it.
