Sandalwood and Goodbye
A chance encounter on a cold street—a conversation, a necklace, a goodbye. But some reunions don't happen in the waking world. Some happen in the spaces between heartbeats, where the dead still walk among us.
It started as most things do lately—with her face.
I was walking home from work, the same route I'd taken for three years, when the memory hit me. Lena. The way she used to laugh at my terrible jokes. The way she'd steal bites of my lunch when she thought I wasn't looking. The way she'd curl up on the couch beside me and fall asleep within minutes, her breathing slow and even against my shoulder.
I wanted to see her. Not speak to her—just see her. One glimpse. One proof that she was still out there somewhere, that the life we'd built hadn't simply evaporated the way everything seems to evaporate now.
So I changed direction. Took the long way past her building. Told myself I'd just walk by, maybe catch a light in her window, maybe imagine her on the other side of the glass, reading or watching something or doing any of the thousand small things she used to do while I was there.
I never made it to the building.
She was behind me.
"Standing around again? You'll catch cold."
The voice. God, that voice. I turned and she was there, backlit by the streetlamp, her dark hair loose around her shoulders the way she used to wear it on lazy Sunday mornings. She looked the same. Exactly the same—right down to the small smile that always seemed to be waiting for me.
My heart did something complicated in my chest.
"I was just... walking," I managed. "Thought I'd take a look around."
"Well, look all you want. But it's late, and you look like you haven't slept in days."
She wasn't wrong. I hadn't. Not properly.
"You look different," I said, searching her face. "More... beautiful. Like you've been taking care of yourself."
She laughed—a real laugh, warm and familiar. "I'm always beautiful. You just stopped noticing."
"That's not true."
"I know." She stepped closer, and I caught her scent—sandalwood, something floral beneath it, the same smell that had clung to her clothes and her hair and the pillow beside mine. But there was something else too. Something thin and chemical, like air in a hospital room. I tried not to think about it.
"You look thin," she said. "And tired. Like you haven't been eating."
"I've been fine."
"Liar." She reached out, touched my face. Her fingers were cold—colder than they should have been—and I flinched without meaning to. She smiled, sad and knowing. "You're always cold. I used to warm your hands for you."
"You did."
"Someone has to take care of you."
We stood there, two people on a sidewalk in the early dark, and I wanted to ask her so many things. How? Why? Where did you go that night, the night I called and called and you never answered? Where are you now, in the moments between heartbeats, in the spaces I can't reach?
But I didn't ask. I just looked at her.
"I'm doing well," she said. "Busy. I've been working on something. A project. It keeps me up at night."
"You always were ambitious."
"Someone has to be."
She glanced at her watch—a gesture so ordinary it hurt—and when she looked back, something had shifted in her eyes. "I should go. It's late."
"Wait—"
But she was already reaching into her pocket. She pulled out a small box, something delicate, and pressed it into my palm. I looked down: a chain, simple and silver, with a small pendant I didn't recognize.
"I've been saving this," she said. "For a long time. I wasn't sure you'd ever get it."
"Lena..."
"Put it on for me?"
I turned around. She stood behind me, the chain cold against my neck as her fingers worked the clasp. I could feel her breath on my shoulder—slow, steady, wrong somehow—and I closed my eyes and pretended we were somewhere else. Somewhere before.
When she finished, she turned me back around. I was crying. I hadn't realized.
"Don't cry," she whispered. "You know I'd hate to see you cry."
"I can't help it."
"I know." She wiped my cheeks with her thumbs, her touch impossibly gentle. "Take care of yourself. Eat real food. Sleep. Don't spend so much time staring at screens. And don't—" She stopped, swallowed. "Don't come looking for me. Not yet. I'm not ready."
"Ready for what?"
She smiled, but her eyes were wet. "For you to follow me."
She walked away. Up the steps, through the door, into the building I could never enter again. She didn't look back.
I stood there for a long time, the chain burning cold against my chest, until the night turned to fog and the streetlights blurred into something that wasn't real.
---
I woke up drowning.
Not in water—in grief. The kind that fills your lungs and leaves no room for air. I was gasping, clawing at the sheets, and it took me too long to realize I was in my own bed, in my own room, with tears soaking into the pillow I couldn't remember laying my head on.
The necklace was still there. The silver chain, the pendant I didn't recognize. But it hadn't been there when I fell asleep. I was sure of it. I'd gone to bed with nothing, no jewelry, no keepsakes, no reminders of what I'd lost.
I threw on clothes and ran.
Three miles through empty streets, my lungs burning, my legs screaming, the chain bouncing against my chest with every step. I didn't stop until I reached her building. Her mother's building. The one with her window on the third floor, the one with the light that never turned on anymore.
I knocked. Once, twice, three times—until my fist was numb and my voice was raw.
Her mother opened the door. She was older than I remembered, smaller somehow, wearing clothes that hung loose on a frame that had forgotten how to hold itself up.
"Mrs. Chen."
"You." Her voice was flat. Not angry—just empty. "You're the one she kept talking about."
"I need to see her. Please. I need—"
She didn't move. Just stood there, blocking the doorway, and something in her expression told me she already knew. She knew why I was here. She knew what I was asking for.
She stepped aside.
The living room was quiet. Too quiet, the kind of silence that presses against your ears and settles into your bones. And at the far end of the room, against the wall where a fireplace used to be, was a table. A photograph. A face I knew better than my own.
Lena. Smiling. The way she smiled before everything changed.
I walked forward. My legs didn't feel like mine. Nothing felt like mine anymore. I stopped in front of the photograph, and I reached into my pocket, and I pulled out the ring—the one I'd been carrying for months, the one I'd never had the courage to give her, the one that represented every future we'd planned and never got to have.
I placed it beneath her face. Beneath the glass. Beneath the woman who had been real and warm and mine.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I should have given this to you myself."
The room stayed silent.
The chain burned cold against my chest, and I wondered—in some place outside of reason—if she was wearing the matching one. If somewhere, in whatever came after, she was looking down at the same silver glint and thinking of me.
Some goodbyes take years to arrive.
Some never come at all.
But the ones that do—the ones that visit you on cold streets with sandalwood and cold hands and things left unsaid—they stay with you. They settle into the spaces between heartbeats. They become part of the architecture of who you are.
I haven't taken off the necklace since.
Some mornings I wake up and reach for her before I remember.
Some nights I still see her face in the space between sleeping and waking.
And some people—in the stories we tell ourselves to survive—never really leave.
They just wait for us to be ready.
I was walking home from work, the same route I'd taken for three years, when the memory hit me. Lena. The way she used to laugh at my terrible jokes. The way she'd steal bites of my lunch when she thought I wasn't looking. The way she'd curl up on the couch beside me and fall asleep within minutes, her breathing slow and even against my shoulder.
I wanted to see her. Not speak to her—just see her. One glimpse. One proof that she was still out there somewhere, that the life we'd built hadn't simply evaporated the way everything seems to evaporate now.
So I changed direction. Took the long way past her building. Told myself I'd just walk by, maybe catch a light in her window, maybe imagine her on the other side of the glass, reading or watching something or doing any of the thousand small things she used to do while I was there.
I never made it to the building.
She was behind me.
"Standing around again? You'll catch cold."
The voice. God, that voice. I turned and she was there, backlit by the streetlamp, her dark hair loose around her shoulders the way she used to wear it on lazy Sunday mornings. She looked the same. Exactly the same—right down to the small smile that always seemed to be waiting for me.
My heart did something complicated in my chest.
"I was just... walking," I managed. "Thought I'd take a look around."
"Well, look all you want. But it's late, and you look like you haven't slept in days."
She wasn't wrong. I hadn't. Not properly.
"You look different," I said, searching her face. "More... beautiful. Like you've been taking care of yourself."
She laughed—a real laugh, warm and familiar. "I'm always beautiful. You just stopped noticing."
"That's not true."
"I know." She stepped closer, and I caught her scent—sandalwood, something floral beneath it, the same smell that had clung to her clothes and her hair and the pillow beside mine. But there was something else too. Something thin and chemical, like air in a hospital room. I tried not to think about it.
"You look thin," she said. "And tired. Like you haven't been eating."
"I've been fine."
"Liar." She reached out, touched my face. Her fingers were cold—colder than they should have been—and I flinched without meaning to. She smiled, sad and knowing. "You're always cold. I used to warm your hands for you."
"You did."
"Someone has to take care of you."
We stood there, two people on a sidewalk in the early dark, and I wanted to ask her so many things. How? Why? Where did you go that night, the night I called and called and you never answered? Where are you now, in the moments between heartbeats, in the spaces I can't reach?
But I didn't ask. I just looked at her.
"I'm doing well," she said. "Busy. I've been working on something. A project. It keeps me up at night."
"You always were ambitious."
"Someone has to be."
She glanced at her watch—a gesture so ordinary it hurt—and when she looked back, something had shifted in her eyes. "I should go. It's late."
"Wait—"
But she was already reaching into her pocket. She pulled out a small box, something delicate, and pressed it into my palm. I looked down: a chain, simple and silver, with a small pendant I didn't recognize.
"I've been saving this," she said. "For a long time. I wasn't sure you'd ever get it."
"Lena..."
"Put it on for me?"
I turned around. She stood behind me, the chain cold against my neck as her fingers worked the clasp. I could feel her breath on my shoulder—slow, steady, wrong somehow—and I closed my eyes and pretended we were somewhere else. Somewhere before.
When she finished, she turned me back around. I was crying. I hadn't realized.
"Don't cry," she whispered. "You know I'd hate to see you cry."
"I can't help it."
"I know." She wiped my cheeks with her thumbs, her touch impossibly gentle. "Take care of yourself. Eat real food. Sleep. Don't spend so much time staring at screens. And don't—" She stopped, swallowed. "Don't come looking for me. Not yet. I'm not ready."
"Ready for what?"
She smiled, but her eyes were wet. "For you to follow me."
She walked away. Up the steps, through the door, into the building I could never enter again. She didn't look back.
I stood there for a long time, the chain burning cold against my chest, until the night turned to fog and the streetlights blurred into something that wasn't real.
---
I woke up drowning.
Not in water—in grief. The kind that fills your lungs and leaves no room for air. I was gasping, clawing at the sheets, and it took me too long to realize I was in my own bed, in my own room, with tears soaking into the pillow I couldn't remember laying my head on.
The necklace was still there. The silver chain, the pendant I didn't recognize. But it hadn't been there when I fell asleep. I was sure of it. I'd gone to bed with nothing, no jewelry, no keepsakes, no reminders of what I'd lost.
I threw on clothes and ran.
Three miles through empty streets, my lungs burning, my legs screaming, the chain bouncing against my chest with every step. I didn't stop until I reached her building. Her mother's building. The one with her window on the third floor, the one with the light that never turned on anymore.
I knocked. Once, twice, three times—until my fist was numb and my voice was raw.
Her mother opened the door. She was older than I remembered, smaller somehow, wearing clothes that hung loose on a frame that had forgotten how to hold itself up.
"Mrs. Chen."
"You." Her voice was flat. Not angry—just empty. "You're the one she kept talking about."
"I need to see her. Please. I need—"
She didn't move. Just stood there, blocking the doorway, and something in her expression told me she already knew. She knew why I was here. She knew what I was asking for.
She stepped aside.
The living room was quiet. Too quiet, the kind of silence that presses against your ears and settles into your bones. And at the far end of the room, against the wall where a fireplace used to be, was a table. A photograph. A face I knew better than my own.
Lena. Smiling. The way she smiled before everything changed.
I walked forward. My legs didn't feel like mine. Nothing felt like mine anymore. I stopped in front of the photograph, and I reached into my pocket, and I pulled out the ring—the one I'd been carrying for months, the one I'd never had the courage to give her, the one that represented every future we'd planned and never got to have.
I placed it beneath her face. Beneath the glass. Beneath the woman who had been real and warm and mine.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I should have given this to you myself."
The room stayed silent.
The chain burned cold against my chest, and I wondered—in some place outside of reason—if she was wearing the matching one. If somewhere, in whatever came after, she was looking down at the same silver glint and thinking of me.
Some goodbyes take years to arrive.
Some never come at all.
But the ones that do—the ones that visit you on cold streets with sandalwood and cold hands and things left unsaid—they stay with you. They settle into the spaces between heartbeats. They become part of the architecture of who you are.
I haven't taken off the necklace since.
Some mornings I wake up and reach for her before I remember.
Some nights I still see her face in the space between sleeping and waking.
And some people—in the stories we tell ourselves to survive—never really leave.
They just wait for us to be ready.