Chapter 4 The Lonely Widow

Noah's POV　　

I was at the kitchen table with a dismantled toaster when the knock came.

Ella was hunched over her laptop, her eyes fixed on the screen. I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she kept sighing and rubbing her temples.

She had been like that all morning, wrestling with a freelance project that refused to cooperate.

I wanted to ask what was wrong, but I couldn't bring myself to interrupt.

The distance between us, strange and unspoken, made even simple questions feel heavy.

So I stayed quiet and focused on the toaster. I'd found it in the back of a cupboard, something she had long given up on.

My hands, still scarred from the dock work, moved with a care that surprised me. 

I saw Ella push back from her laptop with relief when the knock sounded.

She opened the door to Mrs. Geller, our neighbor. The old woman stood in the hallway, wringing her hands, her face pale with worry.

"It's Marmalade," she said, her voice trembling.

"My cat. He got out the window and now he's stuck on the fire escape. I can't reach him. My arthritis, you see." She looked close to tears.

I set down the screwdriver without thinking. "I'll get him," I said.

The fire escape was rusted and narrow, the metal cold under my palms.

But I climbed through the window and edged along until I reached the terrified orange cat. He was pressed flat against the grating, yowling.

I scooped him up and felt his heart hammering against my hand. He dug his claws into my shirt but didn't fight.

When I climbed back inside and handed him to Mrs. Geller, she clutched him to her chest and looked at me like I had performed a miracle.

"You must let me cook you dinner," she insisted, her voice still shaky.

"Both of you. It's the least I can do. Please. I never get to cook for anyone anymore."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ella's mouth open, probably to politely refuse.

But I spoke first. "We would like that," I said.

Helping with the cat had been simple and good.

This felt like the same thing.

Mrs. Geller's face broke into a smile so full of lonely hope that I was glad I hadn't let Ella say no.

That evening we sat in Mrs. Geller's cramped apartment.

Lace doilies covered every surface, and a shelf displayed framed photos of a man who must have been her husband.

The table was a feast. A roast chicken, golden and glistening, surrounded by mashed potatoes and green beans. A gravy boat shaped like a smiling fish.

A bottle of red wine that looked like it had sat untouched for years.

Mrs. Geller talked without stopping. "Frank and I used to have big Sunday dinners," she said, passing me the potatoes.

"The whole family would come. My sister, her children, Frank's brother. Now it's just me and Marmalade."

She laughed, but it was a sad sound. "The children all moved away. California, mostly. They call on Christmas."

I asked her about Frank, about what kind of man he was.

She told me he worked in construction and could build anything.

"He had strong hands," she said, glancing at my scarred knuckles. "Like yours."

For a moment, I felt a strange sense of belonging, as if I had been placed in a story that wasn't mine but fit somehow.

Across the table, Ella was quiet.

I watched her refill her wine glass twice. The first glass went fast, smoothing the lines on her forehead.

The second one followed before we had finished half the chicken.

Her movements became loose and heavy, her eyes glassy.

I caught myself studying her, trying to understand what she was running from.

She had been carrying something heavy since the day I woke up in that hospital.

I didn't know if it was guilt about the accident or something else, something she wasn't telling me.

When we finally stood to leave, Ella rose and immediately stumbled.

I grabbed her arm, steadying her.

"Thank you for a lovely dinner," I said to Mrs. Geller.

The old woman's eyes were bright. "Thank you, dear boy. For everything."

I guided Ella across the hallway.

She leaned into me, her breath warm and smelling of wine.

Inside our apartment, I lowered her onto the sofa and slipped off her shoes.

I was about to drape a blanket over her when I noticed the damp stain near her collar.

She had spilled wine on herself, and her hair was wet and sticky.

I helped her up again, half guiding, half carrying her into the bathroom.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the bright light.

I ran the water to dampen a cloth, but then I saw her hair was a tangled mess.

"Your hair is damp," I said, more to myself. "You spilled wine on yourself. Hold still."

I found the hair dryer and turned it on low.

I took a section of her hair and began to work through the tangles with my fingers, then the dryer.

The process absorbed me.

I dried each strand slowly, with a care I didn't understand.

Her head drooped forward, her breathing deepening into sleep.

I watched her in the mirror, this woman who claimed I had grown up beside her, who claimed I had loved her my whole life.

I felt a tenderness that confused me because it lacked a foundation.

I had no memories of her in an orphanage, no shared history.

And yet here I was, drying her hair at midnight as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

When her hair was dry and soft, falling in waves around her shoulders, I set the dryer aside.

I lifted her and carried her to the bed.

She curled onto her side the moment I laid her down, her face completely peaceful.

She looked younger like that, the tension gone. 

I stood there for a long time.

The moonlight fell across her features. My chest felt tight.

A part of me wanted to protect her from whatever haunted her.

But another part, a quieter voice, whispered that something didn't add up.

I had no memory of loving her. No memory at all.

And yet I felt something stirring in the empty space where my past should have been.

It wasn't love, not exactly. It wasn't trust. It was something unnamed and hungry. It scared me because I couldn't tell if it was real or just my desperate mind inventing a feeling to fill the void.

I pulled the blanket up to her chin and left the room.

In the living room, I sat on the sofa and stared at the sunflowers still standing on the kitchen table.

Their petals had started to droop.

I would have to throw them out soon.

But not tonight. Tonight I needed them there, a splash of color in the dark, a thing that seemed alive.