Ten years ago...
Marcus sat in the café, hands folded around a cup of coffee that had long since stopped steaming. He hadn't meant to let it cool; it just… happened. Like everything else lately. He stared out the window at the sheets of rain sliding down the glass, blurring the city into something indistinct and gray.
A fitting day, he thought. A fitting place.
His parents would have been furious if they knew he was here. They'd made that very clear.
You don't owe her anything.
She doesn't get to insert herself into our grief.
Let it stay closed.
But Marcus had come anyway. Quietly. Without telling them.
What did he really have to lose?
It had only been a month since the case officially closed. A month since the world decided that answers were good enough, that blame could be filed away neatly, that life could move forward. His family hadn't moved forward. They were still raw with mourning, but more than that—they were angry. Anger was easier. But anger came with naming people to blame, rightfully or not.
And she had been asking to meet. Over and over. Every few days, then nearly every day. Polite messages. Apologies threaded through every sentence. Never demanding. Just polite.
Marcus understood his family's fury. He even shared some of it. But something about the way they spoke about her—as if she were a monster, a villain carved cleanly out of circumstance—felt too simple and easy. It wasn't her fault. She was just in the middle of it.
Michael died because life was unfair. After all, timing was cruel, because things went wrong in ways no one could have controlled. It felt wrong to gather all of that weight and drop it on her shoulders to bear.
At the very least, Marcus could hear her out.
Maybe, he told himself, it would make it easier to hate her the way his parents wanted him to. Maybe seeing her in person would harden something in him, give him clarity.
He wasn't usually nervous.
Still, his heart beat a little faster than normal. His palms felt damp against the ceramic cup. He noticed he hadn't taken a single sip yet.
He was waiting.
That was all he could do.
2:34 PM.
She was late.
Marcus exhaled through his nose and turned his attention back to the window. Outside, an elderly woman struggled against the rain, gripping an umbrella in one hand while a plastic grocery bag stretched precariously in the other. The wind bullied both.
From behind her, a girl came sprinting into view—reckless, fast, umbrella useless with how wildly she moved. She passed the woman in a blur of motion—
—and then everything went wrong at once.
The bag split. Cans clattered onto the sidewalk. The umbrella wrenched free and skidded across the wet pavement.
Before Marcus could even finish registering the scene, the girl had already stopped. She turned sharply, nearly slipping, and rushed back. She guided the woman beneath an awning, pressed the rescued umbrella into her hands, and crouched without hesitation to gather the scattered items.
The woman tried to protest, gesturing toward the umbrella, but the girl shook her head firmly, rain plastering her hair to her face. Marcus watched her mouth It's okay, even from behind the glass.
The woman thanked her—over and over—and the girl finally bolted toward the café.
Marcus felt something twist unexpectedly in his chest.
The door flew open, bells chiming violently. The barista glanced up, startled, as the girl burst inside like she'd carried the storm with her. She was soaked through, clothes clinging, hair dripping onto the floor as she tried—and failed—to wring out her sleeves.
She spotted Marcus and froze.
All that frantic energy drained out of her at once.
She approached slowly now, shoulders tight, and when she sat across from him, she couldn't meet his eyes. Her hands twisted in her lap like she wasn't sure where they belonged.
"Hi… I'm Emerald Eckhart," she said at last, voice barely louder than the espresso machine behind the counter.
"Yes," Marcus replied evenly. "I know. I'm Marcus Solari."
"Yes… I know."
Silence settled between them, thick and awkward. Steam hissed. Cups clinked somewhere behind them.
"Thank you for meeting me," Emerald said quietly. "I—I know your parents weren't happy to hear from me. I didn't expect them to be. I was just hoping… I don't know. I was hoping you might still agree." She swallowed. "So thank you. Really."
Marcus studied her over the rim of his cup and finally took a sip. The coffee was bitter and cold. Her shirt clung to her from all the rain, her fair skin almost glistening from the wet shirt. She had no jacket. Did she know what she looked like right now?
He focused his eyes back to her green ones. "And what is it you wanted to speak about?" he asked, his tone calm, controlled—almost clinical.
Emerald's hands curled into fists, knuckles whitening. She took a breath like she was bracing for impact. When she finally looked up, her green eyes were bright and unguarded, her lip trembling despite the resolve written plainly across her face.
"I'd like to know more about Michael," she said.
The words landed softly—and completely dismantled him.
That was how it started.
Not accusations. Not explanations. Not forgiveness.
Just a question.
She wanted to know who Michael had been. And he provided.
They met again after that. And again. Always somewhere different, as if neither of them wanted to claim ownership over the past. Emerald listened with a fierce attentiveness, remembering small details Marcus hadn't realized mattered—his laugh, his habits, the songs he used to play too loudly in the car.
Once a month became once a week. Once a week became nearly every day.
Their conversations drifted, slowly, carefully. From Michael's memories to Marcus's childhood. From grief to laughter that felt almost guilty. Then, somehow, to them.
Emerald was all motion and feeling—talking with her hands, laughing too loud, crying without shame. Marcus remained steady, thoughtful, the one who steadied the boat when she rocked it too hard.
She came to every meeting open and honest, her heart laid bare from the start.
Marcus never did.
And yet, without realizing it, they became something gentle and unspoken—friends who celebrated small victories, who watched movies in companionable silence, who leaned on each other when the weight of memory became too heavy to carry alone.
Neither of them said it out loud.
But both of them knew.