Dear Diary,
The hospital corridor was drenched in the blinding lateafternoon sun. I squinted for a heartbeat, and when I finally opened my eyes my heart seemed to freeze, then sprint forward like a horse on the run.
There he was, walking toward memy husband, the one whose smile I could picture down to the tiniest crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Yet that could not be; it had been three long years since he left this earth.
Just my nerves playing tricks, I thought, clenching my handbag as hard as I could, trying to pull myself back into the present.
He drew nearer, unmistakably his likeness. Height, gait, the set of his jaw only his gaze was a touch sterner, more restrained. He stared straight at me, eyes wide with a wonder that suggested he, too, might be seeing a phantom.
Heat flushed my cheeks. I lowered my eyes, slipped past him, and headed to the ward where my aunt was staying. It turned out my aunt was the only family I had, and after her operation she required constant care.
The next encounter with the ghost happened in the dressing room. I was pushing an empty trolley down the hallway when I saw him, in a white coat, murmuring quietly to a nurse. The squeak of the wheels made him look up, and his stare was just as direct and probing as the day before.
Dr. Turner, the nurse called brightly, breaking the awkward silence. Thats all for today?
Right, thank you, he replied, nodding, though his eyes remained fixed on me.
Flushed with embarrassment, I wheeled the trolley away, feeling like a foolish schoolgirl.
Days dragged on in the hospital. We kept crossing glances in the corridors. Each time I saw him a childish joy bubbled up inside me, a simple, bright happiness. He would occasionally pop into my aunts ward, always courteous and professional, yet his gaze would inevitably linger on me a heartbeat longer than necessary.
One evening, just as my son Charlie was about to start his night shift, I stepped into the lobby for a glass of water. By the window stood Dr. Turner, watching the city dim as dusk settled over London.
Your son? he asked softly, turning toward me. The young man who visits Aunt Ethel?
Yes, I nodded, surprised that he knew her name. Charlie. Hes a bit of a rascal, but hes a golden boycaring as ever.
He smiled, and that smile was achingly familiar.
He loves you, he said. You can see it.
Something cracked open in my chesta tremor I hadnt felt in years. The body ages, but the feelings remain as fresh and sharp as they were in youth.
Yes, I murmured, blushing. Just dont tell him Im flattered, hell get cocky.
He laughed, a warm, lively sound.
My names Alex, he said, extending a hand. Alex Turner.
Pippa, I replied, feeling the name slip out like a whispered secret.
At that moment Charlie burst into the lobby, brandishing a paper bag of pastries.
Mum, hi! Doc! As promised, a little treat! Sorry about the cabbage, we ran out, he shouted cheerfully.
Alex took a pastry with thanks, and I caught Charlies quick, assessing glance at me.
The next day the gossiping nurses told me Dr. Turner had fallen ill and was on sick leave. A strange hollow settled in my mind. So it wasnt meant to be, I thought, a bitter resignation tinging the words. Maybe its for the bestno awkward goodbyes, no lingering whatifs. Just pleasant memories. Yet those memories weighed heavily; I realised grief isnt forever, and perhaps brighter days lay ahead.
My aunt was discharged three days later. As I packed her things, I tried not to dwell on the emptiness waiting beyond the hospital walls. I was saying goodbye not only to the place but also to the phantom possibility that never materialised.
While loading the car, Charlie suddenly blurted out, You know, Dr. Turner is a widower. His wife died in a car crash three years ago.
I froze, as if turned to stone. Three years. Coincidence? Fate?
How did you know? I whispered.
We chatted while waiting for the pastries, Charlie shrugged. He asked about my dad, very politely. You could tell he was alone. And the way he looked at you not like a doctor.
Silently I slipped into the passenger seat, hope flickering anew in my heart.
Home was quiet. I brewed a cup of tea and settled by the window, watching the familiar garden outside. Then I noticed an envelope on the kitchen tablesomething I hadnt put there. Charlie, perhaps.
Inside was a postcard depicting an old hospital, uncannily similar to the one wed just left. Trembling, I opened it.
Pippa,
I know this may sound mad, and Im truly sorry I fell ill and couldnt say goodbye properly. But I cant let you simply disappear. Three years ago I lost my love. When I saw you in the corridor, it felt like the sun rose a second time in one day.
Im not your husband. Im another man with his 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 welled up, but they were tears of happiness. I wasnt alone in this strange feeling; he felt it too, and he had the courage to make a step I could barely imagine taking.
The next afternoon, halfpast five, I stood before the mirror, adjusting my dress nervously.
Mom, you look lovely! Charlie called from the kitchen. Just dont overquestion the past, okay? The future matters more.
I smiled.
The Edge café was cosy, smelling of fresh scones. Alex was already there, seated by the window, scrolling through the menu with a tense expression. When he saw me enter, he rose, and that familiar, yet fresh, smile spread across his face.
I was afraid you wouldnt come, he said, pulling out a chair for me.
I was scared youd regret sending that letter, I admitted as I sat down.
Not a second, he shook his head, his eyes serious. You know, the first time I saw you it felt like a miracle, a reminder that life doesnt end.
I felt the same, I whispered. Like a warm wind from the past, but not the past itselfsomething new.
He reached across the table, and I took his hand. It was warm.
Lets try, Pippa, he said gently. No rush. Just try to be happy.
Looking into his eyeseyes of a man whod walked through the same pain as me yet never gave up hopeI nodded. For the first time in three long years I felt not grief for what was lost, but a bright, thrilling anticipation of what could come. It was my happy ending, which in truth was merely the beginning of a new story.
