Then I saw the surname beneath it.
My hands tightened around the file.
It could not be him.
There had to be hundreds of men with that name.
But when I raised my eyes toward the patient lying in the bed, I recognized him immediately.
Fifty-six years had passed, but they had not erased the face I remembered.
Thomas was thinner now.
His skin was pale, and illness had left deep shadows beneath his eyes.
Yet those eyes were still the same ones that had watched me board a bus all those years ago.
He looked at me and smiled as though he had been expecting me.
“Hello, Nancy,” he said softly.
For several seconds, I could not speak.
I stood beside his bed holding a blood pressure cuff, feeling as if my entire life had followed me into that hospital room.
“Thomas,” I finally whispered. “Oh my goodness. Thomas.”
After that day, I found reasons to visit his room during every shift.
Sometimes I checked his medication.
Sometimes I brought him water.
Sometimes I simply sat beside him after my duties were finished.
Thomas told me he had never married.
I confessed that I had not married either.
We laughed about our gray hair, our aching knees, and the foolish dreams we had once shared.
Other times, we sat in silence, comfortable in a way that made the lost decades between us feel smaller.
“You still drink your coffee black?” he asked one afternoon.
“I do.”
“I knew you would.”
There was something unusual about his calmness.
Many patients with serious illnesses were frightened, angry, or overwhelmed.
Thomas seemed peaceful.
He carried himself like someone who had been waiting a very long time for one final thing to happen.
One morning, he asked me a careful question.
“Do you have any family nearby, Nancy? Anyone helping you?”
“Only a distant cousin named Raymond. He has been calling more often since I moved back.”
