Three weeks later
1438 Words
The sketch still lives in the back of her poetry book.
Aurora James wasn’t sentimental. At least, that’s what she told herself as she slid the drawing out once again during her lunch break and ran a thumb over the lines of her sleeping face. She hated how accurate it was—how the lines captured her vulnerability without asking permission.
She didn’t even know his name. But that sketch had become her undoing.
He was real. That part she was sure of. Her best friend, Lila, had joked that maybe she dreamed it all, hallucinated him like some tired Florence Nightingale ghost story.
But the pencil marks said otherwise. And worse—she wanted to see him again.
In the middle of stitching wounds, checking vitals, and resetting broken bones, she’d find herself wondering if he walked the same streets she did. If his hands still smelled like graphite. If he ever thought about the woman in the chapel.
And every man who paused in a hallway or sat with a sketchpad on the subway felt like a false alarm.
Ro closed the poetry book, shoved it into her locker, and snapped the door shut.
Today wasn’t the day to indulge ghosts.
“Ro, trauma incoming in three.”
Dr. Lila Mensah’s voice cut through the ER’s hum like a command disguised as conversation. Tall, sleek, and commanding in her navy scrubs, Lila didn’t make small talk during the trauma rush.
Ro tossed her lab coat on and followed her down the hallway.
“What’ve we got?”
“Construction site injury. A boy of about nine. Some scaffolding fell.”
Ro’s stomach clenched. Children were always the hardest.
They reached the bay just as the EMTs wheeled the boy in, a fresh gash bleeding across his temple, his arm at an odd angle, mouth whimpering but eyes sharp.
Ro moved on instinct—pressure on the wound, barked orders for gauze, and assessment of vitals.
“You’re doing amazing, baby,” she whispered as she cleaned the boy’s face. “We’ve got you.”
The boy blinked at her through wet lashes. “Is my building still going to be there?”
She paused. “Your building?”
“My dad drew it,” the boy said with trembling pride. The one with the circular windows. He’s the boss of all the plans.
Ro froze. Her fingers wrapped the bandage a second too slowly.
“Your dad’s an architect?”
“Yeah. Mercer & Company. He says, "I’m going to design the next one.”
Ro felt the breath leave her body.
Mercer.
The name struck her like the first clap of thunder that night in the church. She didn’t know if it was his name, but something inside her twisted like a compass jolting true.
She forced her voice to be steady. “What’s your dad’s name, sweetheart?”
But the boy’s eyes were already fluttering closed, the anesthesia doing its job.
Ro stepped back, blood pounding in her ears.
Mercer. Could it be him?
Later that evening, she stood in the hospital’s rooftop garden, a sketch tucked into her hand like a talisman. The sky had turned amber, soft around the edges, and the city below hummed with that familiar buzz of life refusing to stop.
Lila found herself leaning on the railing.
“Are you alright?” she asked gently, eyes narrowing as she saw the sketch in Ro’s hand.
Ro nodded slowly. “The boy earlier—his dad is an architect. Mercer & Co. Same name. Same company. And the building where he was injured… is on my subway route. I pass it all the time.”
Lila raised a brow. “You think it’s him?”
Ro shrugged. “I don’t know. But something about that night… it stuck in me.”
Lila tilted her head. “Ro, I love you. You know I do. But girl, you don’t fall for men in hospitals. Or in rainstorms. You especially don’t fall for men you don’t know.”
“I’m not falling,” Ro said almost too quickly. “I’m just… wondering.”
Lila smirked. “Is wondering code for replaying that night every time your playlist hits a sad piano song?”
Ro cracked a reluctant smile. But the smile faded just as quickly.
“Lila, he left. No name. No number. Just that sketch. If it’s him…, why didn’t he come find me?”
Lila was quiet for a long moment. “Maybe he was wondering the same thing. Maybe he thinks you have vanished.”
Ro hated how that idea made her chest ache.
That weekend, Ro wandered into a gallery event—half out of boredom, half on a dare from herself. It was a fundraiser connected to the hospital, and someone had donated event passes. Lila convinced her to go by threatening to sign her up for speed dating instead.
The gallery was a maze of exposed brick and hanging lights. Music played low and slow, glasses clinked, and the people looked too polished to be real.
Ro stuck close to the wine table. And then she saw it. A sketch. Framed. Minimalist. Beautiful. It wasn’t her.
But the lines… the curves… the style—it was him. She could feel it.
There was no label—just initials: EM.
A man stepped in front of her view. Tall. Familiar. Talking to someone in a dark suit.
She almost dropped her glass.
It was him.
My hair is slightly longer than before. It's the same faint slouch. It's the same quiet gravity.
Her pulse thrummed in her throat as she watched him turn, shake hands, and laugh softly.
A woman leaned in and touched his arm. Something in Ro clenched. But he stepped back politely, then walked away toward the far exit.
And just like that, he was gone again.
Later that night, she sat at home staring at the sketch and whispering to herself like a fool.
“You could’ve said something.” But she hadn’t.
And now, she didn’t even have the initials as proof.
Monday came too soon. She dove back into work, pretending not to care.
But the name lingered. Mercer.
She googled the firm. I found a website. Read bios.
Elias Mercer.
Principal Designer. No photo. I don't have any personal info. Just a quote:
“Buildings are like people. "You must know where they bend before you can help them stand.”
She closed her laptop. That was him. It had to be.
A week later, Lila cornered her in the staff lounge, waving two tickets like a holy relic.
“What’s this?” Ro asked warily.
“An architecture and poetry collab at the bookshop you love. Mercer & Co is sponsoring. You’re welcome.”
Ro’s stomach flipped. “Lila…”
“I’m not pushing. I’m just saying—you wanted to wonder less? Go find out.”
The night of the event, she wore grey jeans, a simple black top, and the scarf her mother gave her the year she graduated from nursing school. Something about it made her feel… grounded.
The bookstore was dim and packed. String lights hung overhead, books towered on mismatched shelves, and the mic stand waited in the center.
She stood near the back, trying to blend in.
The first few readers were passionate and eloquent but forgettable.
Then, the host stepped up. “Our next guest is an architect, but tonight, he’s letting words do the building.”
Ro’s breath caught.
“Please welcome Elias Mercer.”
He stepped into the light. And for a second, everything stilled.
The way he held the page in his hand. The way he glanced at the crowd, as if they were strangers, he had already forgiven. The way his voice dropped just a note lower when he spoke.
“Some nights don’t ask your name.
They ask what broke you.
And if they’re kind,
They leave you a little more whole than you were before.
The poem went on. About storms. About shelter. About strangers who feel more like home than any building ever could.
Ro wasn’t breathing.
He looked up once during the reading, right toward her. Their eyes met.
His expression faltered, just a beat. His fingers twitched. But he said nothing.
And when it ended, the crowd clapped, and she watched him disappear into conversation.
She didn’t move. She couldn’t.
On the walk home, she whispered into the night:
“You remembered.” But he hadn’t said her name. And she still didn’t know his voice in the daylight.
- Writer
