Until one winter night unraveled it.

My car gave out without warning, coughing once before going completely still. The irony didn’t hit me immediately—only the cold did. Then I looked up and realized exactly where I was. His building. Snow gathered along the sidewalk, streetlights blinking like they couldn’t decide whether to stay on. I sat there gripping the wheel, stunned, as if the city itself had nudged me into a corner I’d spent years avoiding.

I grabbed my phone to call roadside assistance. That was the sensible choice. But as I scrolled, my finger paused over a name I had never removed. I stared at it longer than I meant to. Every excuse rose up at once. Don’t bother him. Don’t reopen things. Handle it yourself.

I ignored them and called.

He picked up immediately.

No hesitation. No confusion. Just my name, spoken the way he used to say it—familiar, unguarded. For a moment, I couldn’t speak. When I finally explained where I was, my voice felt thinner than usual. There was a brief pause, long enough for old fears to rush in. Then he said simply, “Don’t move. I’ll be there.”