Hope Never Died

1︱Chance Encounter

Another typical day at work.

Same routine, different patients.

Renee's still married to another man, and I'm still moping around like a dead loss.

I draw in a tight breath and knock on Mrs. Leblanc's door—the last patient I performed surgery on yesterday. A Coronary Artery Bypass Grafting surgery that lasted four hours and twenty-two minutes.

When I get no response, I push the door open and halt when I see someone sitting next to her. It's a woman who has her light brown hair tied in a bun and is sitting with her elbows on her thighs and her head in her hands. Her outfit is simple. A black long-sleeved, turtleneck dress that stops just above her knees with black leather heels.

I clear my throat, and her head snaps up. I try not to stare at the opening of her dress on her chest.

Her glazed blue eyes widen, and she blinks rapidly, as though clearing a fog to see if I'm concrete or a product of her thoughts.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you come in," she rushes to say, touching her forehead.

"It's fine," I tell her with a stiff smile, moving closer to the hospital bed. "Did she wake up?"

"I was wondering why she didn't, actually," she says in a firm voice, pointing at the bed. "Why is she not awake yet?"

"It's the anesthesia; she should be up soon, though," I assure her. "Relative of Mrs. Leblanc?"

She blinks again, her lips parting before curving into a beautiful smile. "She's my grandma."

"What's your name?" I ask, checking the saline.

"Cory," she answers, her gaze tracking my movements. "Yours?"

"Elias Torres," I reply, now moving to the heart monitor.

"You don't seem too old," she observes.

"I'm thirty-three," I reply.

"I take it back. That's an entire decade between us."

I turn to find her rubbing her eyes. "How long have you been here for?"

"Late last night," she says, tilting her head. "Do I look like a mess?"

"Not really, but I can tell you're tired," I answer, wondering how she convinced the visitor management to let her stay overnight.

She hums, glancing at the phone on the bedside table as it lights up with multiple notifications at once.

"When was the last time you had a full night's sleep?"

"Define full night," she drawls, resting her cheek in her hand and her elbow on the arm of the chair.

"Eight hours at least."

Her eyes widen comically. "Like, legit?"

I raise my eyebrows.

"I mean," she says, hesitating briefly, "a good night's sleep rarely lasts longer than four hours for me."

I shake my head. "You need to work on that."

She rolls her eyes at the ceiling and slumps in her chair.

A coworker of mine walks in accompanied by a nurse, and that's when Mrs. LeBlanc stirs.

"Nona!" says Cory brightly, leaping to her feet.

The old woman blinks at her and frowns in confusion. "Who is she?" she asks me in a whisper, glancing at Cory.

I can hear Cory's heart breaking. She stares at her grandmother, the color draining from her face and her lips parting as her eyes become sorrowful.

Dementia isn't an easy thing to deal with. No matter how many times your loved one forgets you, it still hurts the same.