He opened it gently and peeked outside.
No one.
Just the quiet corridor and a forgotten package left at the neighbour's door. He sighed, stepping back in. His heart, which had leapt like a schoolboy hearing his crush's name, now quietly sulked like an old man denied tea.
Inside, the room still looked perfect.
The food was still warm. The petals hadn't wilted. The wine sparkled in the light.
But she wasn't here.
And his stupid chest ached a little more than he expected.
He walked back to the sofa and dropped himself onto it, both arms stretched out. The soft jazz music still played in the background, the candle flickered peacefully on the table—and Ethan, tired from hope and jet lag, closed his eyes for a minute.
Just a minute.
**
Same Time — St. Adelaide Hospital, Rooftop Lounge
