Callahan Meyer had been saved.

The icy river hadn’t taken his life, but it had scrubbed away the remnants of his old, volatile self.

He spent two weeks in the hospital. By the time he was discharged, he was a different man. He no longer stalked Maya Cole, nor did he attempt to cross her path. Two blocks from her apartment, he leased a small storefront and opened a cafe.

He named it simply: *Waiting.*

He learned to brew coffee, pull shots for latte art, and bake simple pastries. He traded his designer suits for cotton and linen, leaving the arrogant Meyer heir in the past. He looked like any other cafe owner—quiet, introspective, his gaze dimmed into a steady, hollow calm.

He had learned the meaning of true respect. If she didn’t want to see him, he remained invisible. When she faced trouble at work, he resolved it from the shadows, leaving no trace behind. As long as she lived a peaceful, smooth life, he was content to watch from the periphery.

Peter and Martha Cole had returned home. Every year on her birthday, a massive wire transfer appeared in Maya’s account. She never touched the money, nor did she ask where it came from. Martha had spiraled into a deep depression, spending her days weeping over blurry childhood photos of her daughter. Peter’s hair had turned white overnight; he had aged into a withered shadow of the man he once was.

News of Alexandria Rodriguez’s fate eventually trickled out. Callahan had compiled the evidence of her crimes—the hired thugs, the fraud, the forged medical records, and the elaborate frame-ups—and handed it all to the police. With the proof indisputable, Alexandria was sent away. Word had it that she’d lost her grip on reality behind bars, spending her days rambling about how she was the rightful heiress of the Cole family and the fiancée of Callahan Meyer.

No one visited. No one mentioned her name.

Maya had put down deep roots in Montreal. A year later, she married Ishaan Montgomery. The wedding was intimate, attended only by a few close friends. She wore a minimalist white satin gown, her smile soft and her eyes bright with life.

Callahan didn’t receive an invitation. On the day of the wedding, he closed the shop and sat by the St. Lawrence River. He watched the sunset turn the water to gold, then watched that gold fade into the encroaching night. He didn't cry. He simply sat there, jaw set, eyes locked on the horizon.

Life moved on, peaceful and happy.

Occasionally, on a weekend afternoon, Maya would visit the bookstore across from *Waiting*. She would order an Earl Grey, choose a seat by the window, and read for hours.

Behind the glass of his cafe, Callahan would be there, quietly brewing coffee or wiping down cups. Every now and then, he would look up, his gaze traveling across the street to settle on her silhouette. Sunlight would spill through the glass, dancing in her hair. She’d be hunched over, her eyelashes casting soft shadows against her cheeks as she lost herself in the pages.

They were separated by a street, by the flow of pedestrians, and by a constant stream of cars. They were like two parallel worlds, running alongside one another, destined never to intersect.

One spring afternoon, the sun was warm and bright. Maya was browsing the shelves when her fingers brushed against the spine of a poetry collection. On a whim, she pulled it out. She flipped to a random page, her eyes falling on a single line:

*“You are the one I would want to kiss even if I were unplugging my own life support.”*

Her fingertips paused.

A moment later, she closed the book, shelved it, and walked over to her seat by the window. As she sat down, her gaze drifted outside.

Across the street, the window of *Waiting* sparkled in the afternoon light. Callahan stood behind the counter, his head bowed as he focused on a pour-over. He wore a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing lean, steady forearms. His movements were practiced and his expression was peaceful—there was no trace of his former obsession left.

In a small pot on his windowsill, sunflowers were in full bloom, their golden heads turned toward the sun.

Maya watched for a few seconds before looking away. She picked up her cooling tea, took a sip, and returned her attention to the book in her lap.

The wind chime on the bookstore door tinkled. Ishaan Montgomery stepped inside, holding a small bouquet of fresh sunflowers. He walked toward her with a warm smile.

"Did I keep you waiting? I saw these on the way over and thought you'd like them."

Maya looked up, took the flowers, and smiled.

"Not long."

Sunlight streamed through the glass, wrapping her and the sunflowers in a warm, golden glow.

Across the street, Callahan poured the coffee into a porcelain mug and placed it on a tray. He looked up, his gaze sweeping over the bookstore window once more. There, the silhouette he missed so dearly tilted her head, offering a soft, genuine smile to the man beside her.

He watched them for two quiet seconds, then lowered his gaze. He ran a hand through his hair, turned, and went to serve a customer.

Outside, the sun was bright, and the sunflowers swayed gently in the breeze.

Spring, it seemed, had truly arrived.