Page 52 of Never Quite Gone

“I haven't been here since...” I gestured vaguely, not needing to finish the sentence.

Then something clicked. “Wait a minute,” I turned to face him fully. “How do you keep doing this? First the hospital garden, then that bookstore on 73rd, now here. Are you following me?”

Alex's smile held both mischief and warmth. “Maybe I'm just very good at being in the right place at the right time.”

“Or maybe you have a very sophisticated surveillance system,” I said, but found myself smiling despite everything.

“Please,” he laughed softly. “If I had sophisticated surveillance, I'd have better timing with the hospital board meetings. Join me for coffee?”

I should have pressed for a real answer, should have questioned this strange pattern of perfectly timed appearances. Instead, I found myself nodding, letting him guide me toward a table – not Michael's corner, but a new space with morning light painting everything in gentle gold.

“Medium Ethiopian, extra shot?” he asked over his shoulder.

“With—”

“A touch of honey,” he finished, already ordering.

“How did you know my coffee order?” I asked as he set two steaming cups between us.

His smile held warmth without pity. “The same way I know you've been avoiding this place for six years. The same way I know why you're here now – muscle memory after a long night shift, your feet following paths they remember even when your mind tries to forget.”

“Michael's order was different,” I said, fingers tracing the cup's warmth. “Ethiopian roast, three shots, enough honey to make the baristas cringe. He said coffee should be strong enough to wake you but sweet enough to make you smile.”

“Tell me about him?” Alex's question held no jealousy, no agenda, just quiet invitation.

Something in my chest loosened – not healing exactly, but the possibility of it. “He loved buildings the way I love medicine. Notjust the structures, but the stories they held. The lives lived in their spaces.”

“That's why he specialized in restoration?”

I nodded, taking a sip of perfectly prepared coffee. “He said every old building had secrets to share, if you knew how to listen. He used to drag me to construction sites on weekends, pointing out architectural details I never would have noticed.”

“What was his favorite?” Alex's interest felt genuine, his attention focused completely on my words.

“The Public Library.” I smiled at the memory. “He spent six months working on preservation plans for the Rose Reading Room. Said it was like touching history, like being part of something eternal.”

The light caught Alex's profile as he listened, turning him into something almost painted. But his presence remained solid, real, anchoring me in this moment rather than letting me drift into grief.

“The last project he was working on...” I swallowed hard, but the words wanted to come. “It was a hospital renovation. Historical preservation while maintaining modern medical standards. He was so excited about combining our worlds.”

“That sounds like him.” Alex's voice held such certainty that I looked up sharply. “Someone who could see the beauty in both old and new, who could bridge different worlds.”

“You talk like you knew him.”

“I know you,” he said simply. “And I can see how much he shaped the person you are now. How much he's still shaping you, even in his absence.”

The words should have hurt, should have felt like pressure on a bruise. Instead, they settled into my chest like truth I hadn't known I needed to hear.

“I miss him,” I whispered, the confession feeling safe in this quiet morning space. “Every day, in a thousand little ways. But sometimes... sometimes I worry I'm starting to forget things. Theexact sound of his laugh. The way his hands moved when he talked about architecture.”

“You're not forgetting,” Alex said softly. “You're just... making room for the memories to breathe. For grief to settle into something you can carry without breaking.”

I studied him over my coffee cup, this man who somehow knew exactly what to say, who had appeared in my life like something from a half-remembered dream.

The morning crowd ebbed and flowed around us, but our table felt like its own pocket of time. Like a space where past and present could coexist without breaking each other.

“Dinner is still on for tonight?” Alex asked finally, giving me space to change the subject.

“Yes,” I found myself saying. “Though I'm not sure I'm ready for whatever truth you're planning to share.”

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