But he opened another one himself.
“My wife died six years ago.”
I went still.
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded, accepting the words without making me responsible for them.
“She was pregnant.”
The room seemed to hold its breath.
“Oh, Eli.”
His eyes moved to Lily, sleeping in the bassinet.
“Car accident. Bad weather. We were on the way to the hospital because she thought something was wrong. I was driving.”
My hand went to my mouth.
“The roads were icy. Another car lost control. They told me it wasn’t my fault.”
He said it the way people say things they have memorized but not believed.
“I used to be a paramedic,” he continued. “Before. Afterward, I couldn’t handle sirens. Hospitals. People needing me fast enough.”
“But you came.”
His eyes met mine.
“You called.”
Two words.
As if that explained everything.
Maybe to him, it did.
“Was it hard?” I whispered.
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
He looked at Lily again.
“Because no one came fast enough for Anna.”
Anna.
His wife had a name.
His grief had a name.
I understood then that the man Ryan called a hermit had not hidden because he was strange.
He had hidden because the world had once demanded something impossible from him and then kept spinning after it took everything.
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
Eli’s mouth tightened.
“Me too.”
Lily made a tiny squeaking sound.
We both looked at her.
After a moment, Eli said, “She’s strong.”
“She had to be.”
