"The accident happened a few days later. We got the call from the hospital." They said it was a crash, wet road, lost control. He died before they even got him out of the car. She didn't cry. Not at first, just sat there staring.
Then she stood up, went to his room, and didn't come out for hours. When she did, she blamed the girl. Said she led him down the wrong path. Said if he hadn't been with her, he'd still be alive. He wiped at his face, not realizing the tears had started to fall.
"I didn't know what to say. What do you say to that?" She was grieving, but so was I. And we never grieved the same way. That tore us apart. She pulled away from the world and I let her.
I didn't fight. I just folded. Jazzy reached across the table slowly placing her hand near his, not touching just there. Goldwin looked at it for a long moment before placing his own hand beside hers.
"After a while, everything fell apart. The house, our savings, our marriage. We lost it all. And now we drift from bench to bench, shelter to shelter. This old watch is all I have left of him." He lifted his sleeve slightly, revealing a worn silver watch on his wrist.
It was scratched and dulled with age, but still ticking. "Roger loved this thing," he said with a sad smile.
"Used to say it made him feel like a grown man. I gave it to him when he turned 18. After the crash, the hospital returned it with his things. I wear it every day. I guess I think if I keep it close, maybe a part of him stays with me." Jazzy stared at the watch.
Her breath caught, but she forced herself to stay calm. She knew that watch, or one exactly like it.
Her eyes darted to the engraving, barely visible on the side. She couldn't read it from across the table, but she didn't need to. Her memory filled in the gap. Goldwin looked at her, suddenly aware of her stillness. "You okay?" he asked gently.
She blinked, pulled herself together, and nodded. "Yeah, just I know what it's like to lose someone and carry them with you every day." He nodded slowly. "Ever lose someone that made the rest of your life feel less alive?" Her answer came only as a look. A deep, heavy one, the kind that said yes without needing a word.
They sat in silence again, not empty, but full of everything unsaid. Everything remembered. Outside the wind continued to press against the windows, but inside for the first time all morning, there was warmth between them. Not just from the coffee, but from the shared space of grief and recognition. Jazzy held her gaze on the watch a moment longer before slowly pulling back her hand and resting it on her lap. She looked down briefly, gathering her thoughts, her breath steadying in her chest.
Goldwin had just laid bare a lifetime of lost pain, and the kind of quiet regret that only those who have loved and failed to protect that love could understand. The moment hung in the air between them, not awkward, but sacred, as if any rush to speak would cheapen what had just been shared. Jazzy finally looked up, and her voice, when it came, was calm and measured, though carrying a weight that had long lived inside her. "I knew Roger," she said softly, not past tense, not distant, but like someone admitting a truth she'd carried alone for too long. Goldwin's expression didn't change immediately, but she saw something shift behind his eyes, a ripple of recognition, or maybe confusion, trying to find clarity. She continued slowly, carefully choosing her words.
"We met years ago, probably around the time you said he started volunteering. I was working retail back then, barely scraping by, taking night classes when I could, trying to make something out of a situation that didn't offer much." Goldwin didn't speak, didn't blink, just listened. "He walked in one evening with a group that brought winter coats to the children." Most of the volunteers came and went. But Roger, he stayed.
He always came back. He made the kids laugh. He remembered names. He listened. That was the first thing I noticed about him. He listened.
Her voice grew steadier as she spoke, though her eyes betrayed the years of memory pressing against each word. "It started with short conversations, then coffee after his drop-offs. He was easy to talk to. There was no judgment in him, no performative charity. He didn't pity me, and he didn't treat me like some project he could fix. He saw me, and he made me feel like that was enough."
Goldwin's hands clenched slightly around his cup. His breathing had deepened, but he said nothing. "We didn't rush things. It wasn't dramatic." It was quiet, steady, like something we both needed but didn't know we were allowed to want. He told me about his mother, about how difficult she could be, how much pressure he felt to live a certain life.
But he also told me about you, how you listened, how you noticed the little things, how you didn't always speak up, but when you did, it mattered. Goldwin looked away for the first time, jaw tightening. "I wish I had spoken up more." Jazzy gave him a small, sad smile. "We all wish that, don't we?" She paused, her gaze drifting for a moment before returning.
"I met Odette twice. She was composed, impeccably dressed, perfect posture, but the way she looked at me, not a word out of place, not an insult said aloud, but I knew. I knew from the moment I shook her hand that I didn't belong in the world she imagined for Roger." Goldwin nodded slowly, still not meeting her eyes. She never said anything directly, Jazzy continued. But every glance, every clipped sentence, every excuse not to invite me to family dinners, it built a wall.
And Roger tried. God, he tried. He bent over backwards to be the bridge, but eventually bridges get tired, too. The memory caught in her throat for a moment, and she had to take a breath before continuing. "We had one last night together." He told me he was done fighting two wars, one with his family, one with himself.
He wanted to move forward with me. He was ready. We talked about what that life might look like. It wasn't big or fancy, but it was ours. And for the first time, I believed it might happen. Her voice dropped just slightly, words thick with grief.
"The next day, he was gone." The silence that followed was thick heavy. Goldwin stared at the table as if the wood grain held the answer to a question he hadn't dared ask in years. Jazzy leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly. "I broke after that, not publicly." I didn't have the luxury, but something inside me cracked.
I didn't have the time or the space to grieve properly. I had bills, a job I couldn't afford to lose. I went numb. She looked up at him again, eyes firm. "But I promised myself something." I promised that if I ever got the chance to build something, anything, it would be because of him.