Dorothy flipped through the pages of the book, not reading, not absorbing—just moving, as if the motion itself could sort the tangled threads of her mind. She sat by the window on the old velvet sofa, its cushions worn soft from years of use, the kind that hugged you like a memory. No, she wasn’t pretending to be busy to avoid conversation. She was thinking. Deeply, painfully, beautifully thinking—about the year that had passed, about how much had changed, about how little she had seen any of it coming.
Twelve months ago, her life had been steady, predictable. Aunt Jessica, though aging, still walked with her cane, still baked apple pies on Sundays, still scolded Dorothy for skipping breakfast. Then came the fall. Then the surgery. Then the silence that stretched through the house like fog after rain.
And before that—the hospital again. Her mother’s last breath. Her father’s absence, gone long before grief had a name. So much loss, so little time to mourn. Dorothy had spent months holding herself together, for Aunt Jessica’s sake, for the house, for the routines that kept her from unraveling completely. But now, in the quiet of the evening, the weight returned.
She closed the book with a soft thump, the cover worn at the corners. From between the pages slipped a bookmark—faded, frayed at the edges, but preserved with care. It bore the initials J.H. in delicate calligraphy. Jason Hartwell. A name she hadn’t spoken aloud in nearly a decade. A memory she had tucked away, like an old letter in a drawer no one opens.
She traced the letters with her thumb, the paper whispering under her touch. Some memories weren’t meant to be forgotten, even if they hurt. Especially if they hurt.
“Dorothy, are there?” came the voice—frail but clear—from down the hall.
Dorothy blinked, startled. She smoothed the bookmark with reverence, slipped it back into the book, and placed it on the side table.
“I’m here, Aunt Jessica. Do you need something?”
“Oh! I was just hoping to see you. I haven’t seen you since morning.” The soft chuckle followed, warm as honey. “You’re always so busy thinking. I can hear your silence.”
Dorothy smiled as she walked into the bedroom. Aunt Jessica lay beneath a quilt stitched by her own hands decades ago, her silver hair fanned across the pillow, her eyes bright despite the weariness of age.
“How are you doing?” Dorothy asked, sitting gently on the edge of the bed.
“Better,” Jessica whispered. “Now that you’re here.” She reached out, and Dorothy took her hand. “Come, stay by my side for a while. You know how precious your presence is to me. Ever since your father left us to his heavenly abode, you’ve been his only shadow that keeps me going.”
Dorothy’s chest tightened. “I’m here, always with you, Aunt Jessica. Do you want me to read something?”
“No,” Jessica said, squeezing her hand. “Just your presence is enough. But would you draw open the curtains a little? I want to catch a glimpse of the azure sky. It’s always refreshing to watch the sun set.”
Dorothy stood, pulled the curtains aside just enough, and watched the late autumn sun bleed gold and crimson across the horizon. Winter was coming, painting the sky in colder hues—deep purples, burnt oranges, a melancholy beauty.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” she murmured. “This time of year… the way the sun sets like it’s whispering a secret before it disappears.”
“It’s my favorite,” Dorothy said. “Since childhood, we’ve watched it together. Ever since my mother died, you’ve been my only comfort and love. And I have no words to thank you for everything you’ve done for me, my lovely Aunt Jessica.”
Tears pricked Dorothy’s eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. Instead, she sat back down, took her aunt’s hand again, and leaned her head gently against the bedpost. They sat in silence, watching the sky fade, two souls bound by loss and love.
The ritual had been this way for years—ever since her mother’s passing, ever since Jessica became more than an aunt, became home. They didn’t need words. Their breaths, their presence, were enough.
A soft knock came at the door.
“The nurse has come to visit Aunt Jessica,” the attendant announced.
Dorothy lifted her aunt’s hand with infinite care and laid it back on the blanket. Jessica had already drifted off, her face serene in sleep, her breathing steady.
The nurse, a kind woman with gentle hands, did her checks quietly, nodding in approval as she recorded Jessica’s vitals.
“She’s doing wonderfully,” the nurse whispered to Dorothy as they stepped into the hallway. “Faster recovery than we expected. We’re delighted. And if you ask me,” she added with a warm smile, “you are the best medicine she has.”
Dorothy looked back at her sleeping aunt, the quilt rising and falling with each breath. Maybe I am, she thought.
After the nurse left, Dorothy folded the new prescription and placed it on the study table, ready for tomorrow’s errands. She walked to the dining room, where dinner had been laid out—soup, bread, a small salad. Just enough for one. It had been lonely these past weeks, eating alone, the house too large, too quiet.
She ate slowly, savoring the warmth, praying for the days when Aunt Jessica would sit across from her, scolding her for not finishing her vegetables.
As she rose to retire, the attendant approached.
“Madame… you have a visitor.”
Dorothy frowned. “At this hour? Who is it?”
“He said he’d like to meet you in person. He’s in the drawing room. Seems nervous. Says his name is… Mr. Jason, from North Hamilton.”
For a moment, the world stopped.
Her breath caught.
Jason.
The name rang through her like a bell long silenced. Her heart pounded once, twice—then settled into a rhythm she hadn’t felt in years.
She didn’t wait. She didn’t question. She walked, then hurried, then nearly ran through the hall, her slippers whispering against the hardwood.
And there he was.
Standing by the fireplace, hands in his coat pockets, staring at the framed photo of her mother. He turned as she entered—taller, older, his hair touched with gray, but his eyes… his eyes were the same. Warm, uncertain, hopeful.
“Dorothy,” he said, voice low, trembling slightly. “I didn’t know if you’d see me.”
She stood still, the air thick between them.
“You left,” she said simply.
“I know,” he replied. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.”
The room felt too small, too vast, all at once.
“I came back because I heard about your aunt. I wanted to see you. To tell you… I never stopped thinking about you. About us.”
Dorothy looked at him—really looked. At the lines on his face, the sadness in his smile, the book she still kept on her shelf, the bookmark she hadn’t thrown away.
Some memories were more precious than the present.
Some silences spoke louder than words.
And some people… some people returned not to rewrite the past, but to ask if there was still a future.
She took a step forward.
Then another.
Outside, the last light of the sun dipped below the horizon. The sky turned deep indigo.
And inside, in the quiet of the drawing room, two hearts—long separated—began to beat in time once more.
“Stay,” Dorothy whispered.
And Jason did.
