The girl stood on the other side of the railing. There was no doubt in her intention to jump from the bridge…
At the very start of her night shift, the ambulance brought in a young man. His car had collided with an SUV at the intersection. After hours of surgery, the patient was wheeled into intensive care, while the surgeon, Eleanor Whitcombe, sat in the doctors’ lounge, documenting the procedure.
“Your coffee, Eleanor.” The seasoned nurse, Margaret Hayes, placed the mug at the edge of the desk.
“Thank you. Call me when the patient wakes up,” Eleanor said without looking up from her notes.
“You should rest while you can. It’s quiet for now.”
“You know as well as I do—a shift that starts like this never ends well,” Eleanor countered.
And she was right. Before she could finish her coffee, another patient arrived. By dawn, Eleanor was dead on her feet and fell asleep at the desk, her head resting on the paperwork. Just as quickly, Margaret roused her—the accident victim had regained consciousness.
Eleanor could’ve said her shift was over, that another doctor would handle it, that she was sure everything would be fine. But she got up and walked to intensive care. It wasn’t in her nature to leave without checking on a patient she’d operated on.
Under the fluorescent lights, the linoleum in the corridor gleamed like still water. Eleanor stepped quietly into the room. She hadn’t gotten a good look at him yesterday—but now she saw a strikingly handsome man tangled in wires and sensors. She checked the monitor’s readings, and when her eyes flicked back to him, she found him studying her.
Even lying in a hospital bed, he radiated arrogance, looking down his nose at her. She wished she had even a fraction of his confidence. It took effort not to glance away.
“How are you feeling, Alexander? We had to remove your spleen. You lost a lot of blood. Two ribs are fractured, but your lung wasn’t punctured. You’re out of danger—got off lightly. The police called. They want to speak with you, but I asked them to give you time to recover.”
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely.
“My shift’s over. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Eleanor left the room.
The ambulance dropping off another patient gave her a lift home. In the hallway, her ginger cat, Marmalade, wound around her legs before trotting to the kitchen, tail held high. Exhaustion clung to her bones, but she had to feed Marmalade first—or he’d never let her sleep. Eleanor was out before her head hit the pillow.
The next day, the patient looked much better. He even smiled when she walked in.
“Good morning. You seem well. Today, we’ll move you to a regular ward, return your phone—you can call your family.”
“I’ve got no one in this city. Did I cause you much trouble yesterday?” His gaze still held that infuriating superiority. How did he manage it?
“When will you discharge me?” he asked.
“You’ve just had surgery, broken ribs… You’ll be here at least a week. After that, we’ll see. Excuse me—other patients are waiting.” She turned to leave.
Before heading home, she checked on him one last time, scrutinizing the monitor and IV drip. When she finally met his eyes, she caught that same intrigued look. He smirked.
A chill raced down her spine. Ellie had seen that smirk before. She had an excellent memory for faces—she didn’t recall meeting him, but that smirk… it unsettled her.
All evening, she racked her brain, trying to place where she’d seen it. Nothing came. The next morning, he was sitting up in bed, wearing a fresh T-shirt.
“The nurse brought it. My clothes were ruined,” he said, catching her surprise. “I can’t shake the feeling…” He glanced at her name tag. “Eleanor, that you want to ask me something.”
“No—well, yes. Have we met before?” she blurted.
“I don’t remember you. I’ve got a good memory for faces—I wouldn’t forget someone like you. You’ve got a look I’ve only seen once before. Years ago. Different city, different life.” He smirked again, then winced—the ribs protesting.
“You can get up, but be careful,” she said.
“Will you come back?” he asked suddenly.
“If the shift’s quiet.”
What’s wrong with me? Why does he act like I owe him something?
“So, Doctor, remembered where we’ve met?” he asked the next day.
“I must’ve been mistaken,” she said.
“But I’ve been thinking—we have met. I know your eyes.”
“What’s wrong with my eyes?” Ellie didn’t want to indulge him, but curiosity gnawed at her.
“On your first day, I thought you were just tired. But even rested, that look stayed. Wary. Like you’re expecting something—ready to bolt at the slightest threat.”
“Don’t be absurd. I’m not running anywhere. You’re recovering well. I’ll discharge you in three days for outpatient care.”
“Thanks for that—” he started, but Eleanor was already leaving.
Three days later, the nurse handed him his discharge papers and X-rays.
“Where’s Eleanor?” he asked, disappointed she hadn’t come herself.
“She’s in surgery.”
He packed up but didn’t leave—instead, he waited in the corridor, watching the doctors’ lounge. When he saw her, he stood.
“You were desperate to go home, yet here you are,” she said, arching a brow.
“Am I wrong, or are you avoiding me?” he asked bluntly. “I couldn’t leave without thanking you. You saved my life.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“But if you hadn’t operated, I’d have died, right? So, you did. And I owe you. Your shift ends soon. Let me take you to dinner. Maybe an hour together will jog your memory. Just dinner and conversation. No strings.”
“You’re insufferable. Fine. I’ll need time to freshen up.”
“Of course. The Old Winchester—near your flat. Seven o’clock. I’ll book the table.”
“You know where I live?”
“Is it a secret?”
“You’re terrifying. Easier to agree than argue.”
“And you’re the doctor I owe my life to. I don’t like debts.”
After her shift, Eleanor showered, styled her hair, touched up her makeup. She deliberated over dresses. She’d long since stopped fearing mirrors. Black was her usual—slimming, safe. But she couldn’t wear black forever. She held up a pink dress, then a blue one. No. Finally, she pulled out a dark emerald one. It matched her eyes. Perfect.
At seven sharp, she entered the restaurant. Live music played. From a far table, Alexander waved. Clean-shaven, in a sharp suit, he was almost unrecognizable.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” he admitted, admiring her—for once, without his usual arrogance. “I booked a quiet table. Didn’t want the music drowning us out.”
The waiter appeared instantly. Eleanor skimmed the menu under Alexander’s gaze. He didn’t bother looking.
“Thought you’d be sick of hospital food,” she said.
“Confession—I already checked the menu while waiting.” His boyish grin was almost endearing.
She ordered a Caesar salad and coffee.
“The same, plus steak,” he said, eyes on her.
“Anything to drink?” the waiter prompted.
“I’m driving, and the lady—”
“Nothing,” Eleanor cut in.
“Where’d you get the name? Father a fan of *The Wizard of Oz*?”
“Got it in one.”
“My full name’s a mouthful. Annoying to write.”
Ellie laughed.
“Finally, I’ve made you smile.”
They ate in comfortable silence until he spoke again.
“That dress suits you. You wear dark colors to look slimmer?”
She shot him a look but didn’t answer.
“Years ago, when I was a fresher, I was walking back to halls one evening. Rain, bitter wind by the river—June felt like October. I was hurrying, head down. Then I saw her. A girl, on the wrong side of the bridge railing. No doubt what she meant to do. I stopped. Told her the water was freezing, her bully wasn’t there to see it—what was the point? That no problem at her age was worth dying for.
She listened. Couldn’t tell if she was crying or just wet from the rain. Oddly, it worked. I helped her back. She almost slipped twice. We went to a café—I bought her coffee. Couldn’t afford a second for myself…”
Eleanor pushed lettuce around her plate.
“I asked what happened, and she—”
“She told you why she wanted to die,” Ellie finished, setting her fork down. “You forgot to mention she was fat. The whole class laughed. *‘Not even a tornado could lift the house with EllieAs the first snowflakes of winter drifted past the restaurant window, Alexander reached across the table and gently covered her hand with his, whispering, “You’re not that girl on the bridge anymore—you’re the woman who walked away from it.”
