Tears of Joy
The hospital corridor was drenched in the blinding afternoon sun. Poppy squinted for a heartbeat. When she opened her eyes, her heart skipped a beat, then galloped away.
There he was, walking toward her. Her husband the one whose smile she could picture down to the tiniest crowfeet. But that could not be, because he had been gone for three long years.
Great, now Im seeing ghosts, she muttered, clenching her handbag as if it could pull her back to reality.
The man drew nearer, and it was unmistakable how much he resembled her late husband the height, the gait, the cheekbones Only his stare was a shade more severe, restrained. Yet he fixed his gaze on her, unblinking, as if he too had just spotted a spectre.
A hot flush spread across Poppys cheeks. She lowered her eyes shyly and slipped past him into the ward where her aunt lay. It turned out her aunt was the only family she had, and after the operation she needed constant care.
Their next ghostly encounter happened in the dressing room.
Poppy was wheeling an empty trolley down the hallway when she saw him. He was in a white coat, murmuring something to a nurse. The squeak of wheels caught his attention and he froze, his eyes as direct and inquisitive as the day before.
Dr. Carter, the nurse called brightly, breaking the awkward silence. All set?
Thanks, he replied with a nod, though his eyes stayed fixed on Poppy.
Flushed scarlet, she hurried past with the trolley, feeling like a schoolgirl caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
Days at the hospital crawled by. They kept meeting eyes in the corridors. Each time Poppy saw him, a childish delight bubbled inside her, making her feel lighthearted. The doctor would sometimes pop into the ward to check on her aunt, always polite and professional, yet his glance would linger on Poppy a heartbeat longer than necessary.
One evening, just as her son Tom was about to start his night shift, Poppy stepped into the lounge for a drink of water. By the window stood Dr. Carter, staring out at the dimming city.
Your son? he asked softly, turning toward her. The young man who looks after Aunt Mary?
Yes, Poppy nodded, surprised he knew the name. Tom. Hes a bit of a cheeky lad, but a golden one caring as ever.
He smiled, and that smile was painfully familiar.
He loves you dearly. You can see that.
Something fluttered in Poppys chesta tremor she hadnt felt in years. The body ages, but the feelings stay as fresh and sharp as they were in youth.
Indeed, she whispered, blushing. Just dont tell him Im blushing; hell think Im full of myself.
He laughed, a warm, lively sound.
My names Alex. Alex Carter.
Poppy, she replied.
At that moment Tom burst into the lounge, brandishing a bag of scones.
Mum, hi! Doctor! As promised, a little treat! Sorry about the extra cabbage.
Alex took a scone gratefully, and Poppy caught Toms quick, assessing glance.
The next day chatty nurses whispered that Dr. Carter had fallen ill and was on sick leave. A hollow feeling settled in Poppys gut. So it wasnt meant to be, she thought with a bitter resignation. Everything is as it should be. Perhaps its for the bestno awkward goodbyes, no whatifs. Just pleasant memories. Yet even that was a lot: Poppy realised grief doesnt last forever, so brighter days lay ahead.
Her aunt was discharged three days later. As Poppy packed, she tried not to dwell on the emptiness that awaited beyond the hospital walls. She was saying goodbye not only to the building but also to the phantom possibility that never materialised.
Tom, loading the suitcases into the car, suddenly said:
Did you know Dr. Carter is a widower? His wife died in a crash three years ago.
Poppy froze, rooted to the spot. Three years. Coincidence? Fate?
How do you know? she asked quietly.
We were chatting about the scones, Tom shrugged. He asked about my dad. He seemed very polite, clearly a lonely man. And his eyes theyre not just doctorlike when they look at you.
Poppy slipped into the passenger seat, hope sparking again in her heart.
At home, silence greeted her. She brewed a cup of tea and sat by the window, watching the familiar garden. Then she spotted an envelope on the table she didnt remember putting there. Tom, perhaps.
Inside lay a card showing an old hospital that looked just like the one theyd left. With trembling fingers, Poppy opened it.
Poppy,
I know this may sound mad, and Im sorry I fell ill and couldnt say goodbye properly. But I cant let you simply vanish. Three years ago I lost my love. 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 ridiculous, Ill be at The Bramble Café at five tomorrow, opposite the park.
Hopeful, Alex
Tears welled up, but they were tears of joy. She wasnt alone in that strange feeling; he felt it too, and had the nerve to act on it.
The next day, halfpast four, she stood before the mirror, fidgeting with her dress.
Mom, you look gorgeous! Tom shouted from the kitchen. Just dont overquestion the past, alright? The future matters more.
She smiled.
The Bramble Café was cosy, smelling of fresh pastries. Alex was already there, hunched by the window, scanning the menu with a tense expression. When he saw her enter, he rose, and that familiar yet new smile blossomed on his face.
I was worried you wouldnt come, he said, pulling out a chair.
I feared youd regret sending that letter, Poppy admitted as she sat down.
Not a second, Alex 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, Poppy whispered. It was as if a warm breeze from the past brushed my cheek. But it wasnt the pastsomething fresh.
He reached across the table, and she took his hand. His palm was warm.
Lets give this a try, Poppy, he said. No rush. Just try to be happy together.
She met his gazethe eyes of a man who had walked through the same pain and 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 lay ahead. That was her happy ending, which in truth was just the beginning of a brandnew story.
