Marcus Webb stands outside the apartment door for a full minute before he knocks. He can hear the TV inside. A commercial. Then silence. Then the TV again. He knocks three times.

Eli opens the door. He's wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt with a stain down the front. His hair sticks up on one side. The scar above his eyebrow looks darker than usual against his pale skin. He hasn't shaved in days.

"Marcus," Eli says. His voice is flat. "What do you want?"

"Can I come in?"

Eli steps aside. Marcus walks into the living room and stops. Empty beer bottles cover the coffee table. Three whiskey glasses sit on the floor. The curtains are drawn. The air smells stale.

"Jesus, Eli."

"Say what you came to say," Eli says. He doesn't sit down. He just stands there with his arms crossed.

Marcus sets his briefcase on the chair. "The board meeting is tomorrow. You need to be there."

"I know."

"Do you?" Marcus looks at him. "Because you've missed the last two calls. Paloma's been covering for you. But people are starting to ask questions."

Eli laughs. It's a short, bitter sound. "Paloma. Right. My wife."

"She is your wife," Marcus says quietly. "That was the deal."

"The deal," Eli repeats. He walks to the window and pulls the curtain back an inch. Light cuts across his face. "You mean the deal where I sold the only real thing I ever had so we could close a funding round?"

Marcus doesn't answer right away. He's known about Kiara since the beginning. He met her once, two years ago, when Eli brought her to a company dinner. She didn't say much. She sat next to Eli and folded her napkin into perfect squares. When someone asked her a question, she answered in short, careful sentences. Eli had watched her the entire night like she was the only person in the room.

Marcus had gone home that night and told his wife he felt sick.

"The company is performing well," Marcus says now. "Revenue is up. User growth is exceeding projections. The Gibson investment made all of that possible."

"Good," Eli says. He drops the curtain. "Then you don't need me."

"Eli—"

"She won't answer my calls." Eli's voice cracks. "I've tried everything. New number. Email. I went to the shop. She wasn't there. I asked the woman at the counter where she was. The woman said Kiara doesn't work Tuesdays anymore. But Kiara always works Tuesdays. She's worked Tuesdays for ten years."

Marcus looks at the bottles on the table. "You need to pull yourself together."

"Why?" Eli turns around. His eyes are red. "So I can go sit in a boardroom and pretend I didn't destroy the only person who ever loved me? So I can smile at Paloma across a conference table and act like we're a team?"

"Yes," Marcus says. "That's exactly what you need to do. Because that's what you agreed to."

Eli picks up one of the whiskey glasses from the floor. He looks at it for a long moment. Then he throws it at the wall. It shatters. Glass sprays across the hardwood.

"Get out," Eli says.

Marcus doesn't move. "Eli—"

"Get out!"

Marcus picks up his briefcase. He walks to the door. He stops with his hand on the knob. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I knew what this would cost. I should have said something."

Eli doesn't respond. Marcus leaves. The door clicks shut behind him.

Eli stands in the middle of the living room. The TV is still on. A woman in the commercial is laughing. He picks up the remote and throws it. The screen goes black.

Then he sits down on the couch and puts his head in his hands.

---

Dara Osei pushes through the door of the dumpling shop at eleven-thirty. The bell chimes. Kiara is at the prep counter. Her ingredients are arranged in a perfect line. Flour. Water. Salt. Filling. Everything in its place.

"Hey," Dara says.

Kiara looks up. "Hi."

Dara sits at her usual table. She watches Kiara work. The dough comes together in smooth, practiced motions. Fold. Pinch. Set aside. Fold. Pinch. Set aside. Kiara's face doesn't change. Her hands don't slow.

Dara has been coming here for three years. She knows Kiara doesn't do small talk. She knows Kiara measures her words the way she measures flour. But today something is different. Kiara is quieter than usual. More precise. Like she's holding herself together through the rhythm of the work.

Dara doesn't ask. She just orders her usual bowl and waits.

When the dumplings come, they're perfect. They're always perfect. Dara eats slowly. She refills her tea twice. When she finishes, she doesn't leave. She just sits there.

Kiara wipes down the counter. She sweeps the floor. She checks the steamer. She moves through her closing routine with the same careful precision.

"You okay?" Dara asks finally.

Kiara pauses. Her hand rests on the edge of the sink. She doesn't look up. "Yes."

Dara nods. She doesn't push. She stays another hour. She doesn't say much. She just sits at the table and scrolls through her phone and drinks tea.

When she finally leaves, she squeezes Kiara's shoulder once on her way out. Kiara doesn't pull away.

The next day, Dara comes back. And the day after that.

---

Six weeks later, Eli collapses in his office bathroom. His assistant finds him on the floor. She calls 911. The ambulance takes him to Seattle General.

The oncologist is a woman in her fifties with gray hair and steady hands. She sits across from Eli in the hospital room. Paloma sits in the chair by the window. Her posture is perfect. Her hands rest in her lap.

"Stage-four stomach cancer," the oncologist says. "It's advanced. Metastasized to the liver and lymph nodes."

Eli stares at her. "What does that mean?"

"It means we can manage your symptoms. We can try chemotherapy. But the prognosis is poor."

"How long?" Paloma asks. Her voice is calm. Clinical.

The oncologist looks at Eli. "Four to six months. Maybe less."

Eli doesn't say anything. He just looks at his hands. They're shaking.

Paloma stands. "Thank you, doctor." She walks into the hallway. The oncologist follows. The door closes behind them.

Eli sits on the edge of the hospital bed. The fluorescent light hums above him. He thinks about Kiara's face in the hotel lobby. The way she dropped the bracelet on the table. The way she walked away without looking back.

He thinks about the note he wrote when he was ten. *I'm going to marry Kiara when we grow up.*

He wonders if she still has it.

He wonders if it matters.

In the hallway, Paloma leans against the wall. She pulls out her phone. She stares at the screen for a long time. Then she puts it away. She doesn't cry. She just stands there, recalculating.

The hospital room smells like disinfectant and something else. Something rotting underneath. I notice it the second I step through the door.

Eli is in the bed by the window. The sheets are white. His skin is almost the same color. Gray at the edges. His cheekbones press against his face like they're trying to get out. His eyes are closed. There's an IV line in his arm. A monitor beeps next to him. Slow. Steady.

Paloma stands when I enter. She's wearing a cream blouse and tailored pants. Her hair is pulled back. She looks tired. Not messy. Just tired in a way that expensive clothes can't hide.

"Thank you for coming," she says quietly.

I don't respond. I look at Eli. His chest rises and falls. Shallow breaths. The scar above his eyebrow is still there. Darker now against his pale skin.

Paloma picks up her purse from the chair. "I'll give you some time."

She walks past me. Her heels click on the linoleum. The door closes behind her with a soft sound.

I stand at the foot of the bed. I don't move closer. I just look at him.

His eyes open. Slowly. Like it takes effort. He blinks twice. Then he sees me.

"Kiara," he whispers.

His voice is rough. Thin. Nothing like it used to be.

I don't say anything.

He tries to sit up. His hand grips the bed rail. His arm shakes. He makes it halfway before he stops. His breathing is louder now. Ragged.

"You came," he says.

"Paloma asked me to."

He flinches. Just a little. Like the name is a physical thing.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Kiara. I'm so sorry."

I look at the monitor. The numbers on the screen. Heart rate. Blood pressure. Oxygen levels. They're all low.

"I was wrong," he says. "I was so wrong. I thought—" He stops. Coughs. It's a wet sound. He reaches for the plastic cup on the side table. His hand shakes too much. Water spills on the sheets.

I don't help him.

He sets the cup down. He looks at me. His eyes are red. "I thought I could have both. The company. The money. You. I thought I could make it work. I thought you'd wait."

"I did wait," I say. "For twenty years."

He closes his eyes. A tear runs down his cheek. It catches in the hollow under his cheekbone. "I know. I know you did. And I—" His voice breaks. "I threw it away. I threw you away. For what? For money. For a company that doesn't even matter now."

I reach into my bag. I pull out the note. It's still folded into a small square. The paper is soft. Worn at the creases. I unfold it carefully.

Eli watches me. His breath catches.

I hold it up so he can see it. The faded crayon letters. The uneven handwriting of a ten-year-old boy.

*I'm going to marry Kiara when we grow up.*

"You wrote this the night you got your scar," I say. "You told me it meant you were serious."

He nods. Fresh tears run down his face. "I was. I meant it. Kiara, I swear I meant it."

"Maybe you did," I say. "When you were ten. But you're not ten anymore."

I set the note on the bedside table. Next to the plastic cup. Next to the pill bottles with his name printed on the labels.

"I came because Paloma asked me to," I say. "She said you needed closure. So here it is. We're done. We were done the night I found out about the wedding. This doesn't change anything."

"Please," he whispers. "Please don't leave. I don't have much time. The doctors said—"

"I know what they said."

He reaches toward me. His hand stretches across the bed rail. His fingers are thin. Skeletal. "Stay. Just for a little while. Please."

I look at his hand. I don't take it.

"I loved you," I say. "I loved you with everything I had. I didn't know how to love anyone else. My whole life was built around you. And you knew that. You knew I couldn't just move on the way other people do. You knew what you were taking when you lied to me."

"I know," he sobs. "I know. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. If I could go back—"

"You can't."

He stares at me. His mouth opens. Closes. No words come out.

I pick up my bag. "Goodbye, Eli."

"Kiara—"

I walk to the door. My hand rests on the handle.

"I'm dying," he says behind me. His voice cracks on the word. "Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

I look back at him. He's crying now. Full, choking sobs. His whole body shakes with them. The monitor beeps faster.

"No," I say. "It doesn't."

I open the door and step into the hallway. Paloma is standing near the nurses' station. She turns when she hears me. Her face is a question.

I walk past her without stopping.

The elevator doors open. I step inside. I press the button for the ground floor. The doors close.

I lean against the wall. The fluorescent light hums above me. My reflection stares back from the metal panel. I look the same as I did an hour ago. The same as I did six weeks ago.

I don't cry.

The elevator reaches the ground floor. The doors open. I walk through the lobby. Past the reception desk. Past the waiting area with its rows of plastic chairs. Past the woman holding a crying baby. Past the man staring at his phone.

I push through the glass doors. The air outside is cold. Clean. It smells like rain.

I get in my car. I sit behind the wheel for a moment. Then I start the engine and drive away.

I don't look back at the hospital. I don't think about the note I left on the bedside table. I don't think about Eli's hand reaching across the bed rail.

I just drive.

And for the first time since I walked into that hotel lobby, I feel something close to peace.