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Three months had passed since our divorce was finalized. Three months since I left the courthouse, convinced I was finally free from a marriage that had slowly worn us both down. Rebecca and I had spent our last year together like strangers under the same roof, communicating mainly through lawyers and in icy conversations about bills, furniture, and what each of us would take.
The drive to the hospital felt like going back in time. Every kilometer brought back memories I had tried to bury: Rebecca’s laughter on our first date, the way she woke me up with coffee and awful songs, and the silence that had settled in our house like dust on furniture that no one touched anymore.
I found her in the cardiology ward, sitting by the window, wearing a hospital gown that made her look shorter than I remembered. Her dark hair, once carefully styled, fell loosely over her shoulders. The self-assurance that had captivated me seven years earlier seemed to have vanished, replaced by that of someone fragile, tired, and uncertain.
« You came, » she said when she saw me in the doorway.
Her voice expressed both surprise and relief.