"Not that I'm trying to push you out," I say eventually, "but I've got to be somewhere in twenty minutes."
Her eyes soften. "Alfie?"
"Yeah."
She steps closer, rests her hand on my arm. Not to anchor me. Just to acknowledge something unspoken.
"Tell him I said hello."
"I will."
She kisses my cheek and heads back out into the day, carrying her life with her instead of dragging it.
We've come a long way.
Thursday mornings belong to Alfie.
They have ever since I got back from rehab. It started as something casual—me needing somewhere to go, him needing company after his health started to deteriorate. Then it became routine and an absolute necessity for us both.
Two years ago, when Alfie moved into the retirement home, the tradition came with him.
The retirement home is quiet in a way that feels intentional. Sunlit hallways. Soft floors. The kind of calm you only get when people are no longer rushing anywhere.
Alfie's room looks more like a study than a hospital—shelves lined with books, framed photos of Gracie on every surface, a leather armchair in the corner that Nick helped bring from the bookstore because Alfie's back couldn't handle the standard-issue furniture.
"Ah," Alfie says with his signature smile when he sees me. “There he is.”
“Sorry I’m late Alf.”
“No need to be sorry. It’s not like I have anywhere to be.” He gestures around with a grin.
His hands tremble when he reaches for mine, but the grip is sure.
"Tell me something, Nathaniel.”
He’s the only person I know that refuses to call me Nate. But I don’t mind it.
I tell him about the studio. About all the amazing opportunities and things that are in the pipeline. Then we talk about how Eden is slowly learning how to take care of itself again.
"You've built something good, son," Alfie says.
"I didn't do it alone."
"We never do," he says. "The ones who pretend otherwise are usually the loneliest."
We sit in comfortable silence. I'm halfway through East of Eden when Alfie speaks again.
"You know what I've realized?"
"What's that?"
"Dying isn't the hard part." He pauses, letting that settle. "Living is. That's what takes courage."
I look up from the book.
"Most people think it's the other way around," I say.
"Most people are wrong." His eyes are distant but clear. "The ones who wait their whole lives? Who keep putting off what matters? They're the ones who die faster. Not from illness or age, but from never really living at all."
