Dear Diary,
The hospital 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 stoppedthen galloped.
There he was, walking toward me. My husband, the very man whose grin I could trace down to the tiniest crinkles around his eyes. It could not behe had been gone three long years.
Ghosts, huh? the thought flickered through my mind, and I clenched the strap of my bag as hard as I could, trying to yank myself back to reality.
He drew nearer, and it was unmistakable how much he resembled my late husband: height, gait, the set of his jaw. Only his gaze was a shade colder, more restrained. Yet he stared at me without blinking, as if he too had seen a phantom.
A hot flush rose on my cheeks. I lowered my eyes, slipped past him, and made my way to the ward where my aunt was staying. It turned out I was her only family, and after her operation she needed constant care.
The next encounter with the ghost happened in the dressing room.
I was pushing an empty trolley down the hall when I saw him again, in a white coat, murmuring something to a nurse. The squeak of the wheels caught his attention; he lifted his head and froze, his stare as direct and inquisitive as the day before.
Dr. Smith, the nurse called brightly, breaking the awkward silence. All set?
Yes, thank you, he replied with a nod, but his eyes stayed fixed on me.
Flushed with embarrassment, I hurried past with the trolley, feeling like a foolish schoolgirl.
Days slipped by slowly in the hospital. We kept crossing glances in the corridors. Each time I saw him, a childlike joy bubbled up inside me. He would sometimes drop into the ward to check on my aunt, always courteous and professional, yet his gaze inevitably lingered on me a fraction longer than necessary.
One evening, just as my son Charlie was about to start his night shift, I drifted into the lobby for a glass of water. By the window stood Dr. Smith, looking out at the dusky city.
Your son? he asked softly, turning toward me. The lad who visits Aunt Margaret?
Yes, I said, surprised that he knew her name. Charlie hes a bit of a cheeky rascal, but a golden one. Very caring.
He smiled, and the smile was painfully familiar.
He loves you dearly. You can see it, he said.
Something stirred in my chesta tremor I hadnt felt in years. The body ages, but the sensations remain fresh and sharp as they were in my youth.
Indeed, I muttered, blushing. Just dont tell him Im getting softhearted.
He laughed, a warm, lively sound.
Alex Smith, he introduced himself.
Mary, I replied.
At that moment Charlie burst into the lobby, waving a bag of pastries.
Mum, hi! Doctor! I brought you a treat, as promised. Sorry about the cabbage leftovers.
Alex took a pastry gratefully, and I caught his quick, appraising glance at my son.
The following day the chatty nurses mentioned that Dr. Smith had fallen ill and was on sick leave. A hollow feeling settled in me. So it wasnt meant to be, I thought with a bittersweet resignation. Everything is as it should be. Perhaps its for the bestno awkward goodbyes, no lingering whatifs, only pleasant memories. Yet even that was a lot to bear; I realized grief isnt endless, so better days must lie ahead.
Aunt Margaret was discharged after three days. While packing her things, I tried not to dwell on the emptiness that would greet me beyond the hospital walls. I was saying goodbye not just to the place, but to the phantom of a possibility that never materialised.
As Charlie loaded the car, he suddenly blurted out, You know, Dr. Smith is a widower. His wife died in a crash three years ago.
I stopped dead in my tracks. Three years. Coincidence? Fate?
How do you know? I whispered.
We chatted over the pastries, Charlie shrugged. He asked about my dad, very politely. You could tell he was lonely. He looks at you not like a doctor, but like
I slipped into the passenger seat in silence, hope fluttering again in my heart.
Home was quiet. I brewed a cup of tea and settled by the window, watching the familiar garden. Then my eyes fell on an envelope on the table that I didnt recall putting thereprobably Charlies.
Inside was a card with a sketch of an old hospital, the very one wed just left. My trembling fingers unfolded it.
Mary,
I know this sounds 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.
Im not your husband. Im 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 at five tomorrow, opposite the park.
With hope,
Alex
Tears streamed from my eyes, but they were tears of happiness. I wasnt alone in this strange feeling; he felt it too, and he had the courage to take the step I could barely imagine.
The next day, half past four, I stood before the mirror, nervously adjusting my dress.
Mom, you look gorgeous! Charlie shouted from the kitchen. Just dont overquestion the past, alright? The future matters more.
I smiled.
The Edge Café was cosy, smelling of fresh pastries. Alex was already there, seated by the window, studying the menu with a tense expression. When he saw me enter, he rose, and that familiar yet new smile blossomed on his face.
I was afraid you wouldnt come, he said, pulling out a chair.
I feared youd regret sending that letter, I admitted as I sat down.
Not a second, Alex shook his head, his eyes serious. You know, the first time I saw you it was like a miracle, a reminder that life doesnt end there.
It felt the same to me, I whispered. Like a warm breeze from the past, yet not the past itselfsomething fresh.
He reached across the table; his hand was warm.
Lets try, Mary, he said. No rush. Just try to be happy.
Looking into his eyeseyes of a man who had walked through the same pain yet never stopped hopingI nodded. For the first time in three long years I felt not sorrow for what was lost, but a bright, trembling anticipation of what was to come. It was my happy ending, which in truth was merely the beginning of a new story.
