“Hello, Agnes,” I greet, my voice even, but softer than usual.
“Alexander,” she says, a small laugh escaping her as she wipes her hands on her apron. “It’s nice seeing you again. My goodness, has it been a year already?”
“Just about.” I glance around the café. The place is small but beautiful—soft lighting, warm wood, framed photos, vases of fresh flowers. It’s quiet and peaceful, the kind of place Lucas would love to sit and study in.
“Congratulations on the opening,” I say. “It’s… really something.”
Her smile turns shy. Her fingers twist the strings of her apron. “Wouldn’t have been possible without your mother. She believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. And she believes in my daughter, too—Maggie. She’s… she’s something special, your mother.”
“She is,” I reply, the corner of my mouth lifting slightly. “She has that effect on people.”
Even after all these years, my mother still talks about Agnes. About the warmth she brought into the kitchen, about her laugh echoing down the hallways of our house. She never forgets people who showed her loyalty.
Agnes takes my pastries order, the kind I know Lucas would like. She insists I sit while she packs them, adding an extra pastry or two despite my quiet protests. Some habits don’t change.
When everything’s ready, I thank her and start for the door. But then—
“Alexander,” she calls softly.
I stop and turn. She’s standing in front of me now, hands wringing in her apron, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
“She’s doing fine,” she says.
I don’t need to ask who. I know.
“My daughter,” she adds, voice trembling. “She’s… she’s doing fine now. Since Robert Grey died.”
She swallows hard. “She’s not completely healed, but knowing he’s gone, knowing he can’t hurt her anymore has helped her. She’s smiling again, Alexander. Really smiling.”
Her eyes glisten, not with grief—something else. Something closer to relief.
I don’t say anything. I don’t have to.
She looks at me for a long moment, the silence stretching like a bridge between us.
And in that quiet, we both understand.
I don’t know how she figured it out.
But she knows.
And we’re both choosing to bury it.
Her gaze softens. “What happened to Robert… it changed our lives,” she says quietly. “Mine, and my daughter’s. For the better.”
Something in my chest tightens. How do I tell her that my life changed that night, too?
That the same alley where I ended his life was the same place and time I met the love of my life.
Instead, I nod, giving her one of my rare smiles.
“I’m glad,” I say softly.
She exhales, like she’s been holding that breath for years.
When I step outside, the cool air hits my face. I slide into the car, the bag of pastries warm in my hands, her words still echoing in my chest.
She’s doing fine.
