I naively believed I was incredibly lucky. I thought the good fortune of my ancestors had allowed me to find not only a good man, but a wonderful family to marry.
Our wedding was celebrated with everyone's blessing. I followed Alex to the city to live in a spacious apartment that, according to him, was a wedding gift from his parents. My life in the following days was filled with happiness.
Alex loved and spoiled me to the point of embarrassing me, especially knowing I was new to the city. He took me for walks every weekend, showing me streets, nooks, and crannies that seemed like secrets. He never let me do heavy chores. He always said that a teacher's hands were for caring for children, not for arduous tasks.
When I told him I was pregnant, he hugged me so tightly I couldn't breathe and then twirled me around the room like we were teenagers. He pressed his ear to my belly, whispering sweet words of love to the child who wasn't yet fully formed.
At that moment, I thought I was the happiest woman in the world.
But happiness is fleeting, and storms don't ask permission before they arrive.
It was a fateful afternoon when Alex said he had to leave suddenly for a construction site in the Rocky Mountains, promising he'd be back soon. I ironed all his shirts, straightened his collar, and told him to be careful on the road. He kissed my forehead and told me not to worry.
Two days later, I received a call from his company.
They said the truck he was traveling in with several colleagues had been in an accident while descending a mountain pass. No one had survived.
My whole world collapsed.
I don't remember how I got to the accident site or how I identified his body. Everything was a sea of tears and grief that seemed too vast to contain. I fainted.
When I woke up, I was in a hospital. Beside me, my mother-in-law was sobbing. She hugged me so tightly I could feel her trembling.
“Sophia,” she whispered, “Alex is really gone. How are you and I going to live now?”
At that moment, I felt a small glimmer of comfort. In the midst of this tragedy, at least I had her: someone to lean on, someone who understood what had been taken from us.
Alex’s funeral was held in an atmosphere of profound mourning. He was like a ghost.
“Father,” he said to the abbot, “the guest in the west wing cell has asked me to go down to the village to buy medicine.”
The abbot nodded. “Go, my son.”
The novice turned to leave, but Charles stopped him.
“Wait,” he said quickly. “What does the guest in the west wing look like?”
The novice answered innocently, “He’s tall. He seems very kind. He’s only been here a few days. He said he came seeking peace. Oh, and he told me that if anyone asks, I should say there’s no one here.”
My heart was pounding.
It was him.
It had to be him.
Charles and I exchanged glances, unable to hide our joy. We thanked the abbot and hurried toward the west wing…
And then, a familiar voice, cold and calm, sounded behind us.
“Are you looking for Alex?”
We turned around.
“You don’t have to look,” the voice continued. “He’s not here.”
There, leaning against an old yew tree, was Dr. Ramirez.
