“Edward…”
“I know.”
“You are very sick.”
“We barely know each other.”
He watched me for a long time.
“I already know enough.”
“Enough to get married?”
“Enough to know you’re the kind of person who sticks around.”
Two days later, a chaplain married us in Edward’s hospital room.
I put on a yellow sweater because Edward said it made the room look less boring.
He was wearing the same cardigan, which was missing a button.
A nurse asked me if I was sure. She said Edward was old enough to be my grandfather.
I just said yes.
Because my heart responded before my mind had a chance.
When the chaplain asked for rings, Edward lifted his can of soda, loosened the ring with his thin fingers, and put it on me.
It was too big.
He laughed softly.
“We’ll pretend your finger is shy.”
For seven days I was his wife.
I signed the forms.
Stretched blankets.
We secretly introduced a better tea.
I stayed by his side when the pain caused him to breathe shallowly.
On one occasion, almost at the end, he opened his eyes and said: “Do not confuse stillness with peace.”
“What does that mean?”
Her smile barely appeared.
CONTINUED ON THE NEXT PAGE.
Then he fell asleep.
He never woke up again.
And the green backpack remained open at my feet like a map without paths.
I didn’t open the notebook that night.
I took the backpack home, placed it on the kitchen table, and stared at it for almost two hours.
The apartment was unbearably quiet.
My mother’s cup was still near the sink, even though she had passed away almost a year ago.
I had never moved it.
I told myself it was because I wasn’t ready.
At midnight, I opened another envelope.
Airport.
Inside was a boarding pass from nine years ago.
On the reverse: “He called his daughter from Gate 14.”
Then, the laundry.
A dryer sheet folded neatly into a square.
“We both waited for the blue blanket. She said it still smelled like home.”
Then the hospital chapel.
A small prayer card.
“She stopped apologizing for crying.”
I placed the envelopes on the table.
Bus stop.
Grocery.
Airport.
Laundry.
Park bench.
Waiting room.
Chapel.
All those simple places.
All those unfinished lives.
In the morning, I had barely slept an hour.
The backpack was still open.
The notebook was still waiting at the bottom.
This time, I opened it.
The first page contained only two sentences.
“People think that loneliness is the absence of company.
Most of the time, it’s about not being noticed.
The words sounded strangely familiar, although I didn’t remember Edward ever saying them to me.
I turned the page.
There were no newspapers waiting inside.
No confessions or childhood stories.
Not even a timeline.
In contrast, each page described an ordinary encounter.
