I took a deep breath. Do it for her.
I walked in. The bell jingled. The soapy smell hit me, instantly transporting me back to being eight years old.
But what I saw inside wasn’t the same at all.
He was there… Eli.
But not like I remembered.
No hoodie. No blanket. No plastic bag full of sorrow. No dirt on his face.
He stood near the folding tables. He wore a dark suit. It wasn’t expensive, but it was pressed, clean, and tailored to fit him. His hair was cut short, neat. His beard was trimmed. He stood tall, shoulders back, looking at the washing machines like he was inspecting them, not hiding behind them.
In one hand, he held a bouquet of white lilies wrapped in clear plastic.
I froze in the doorway, the grocery bag heavy in my hand. The snow melted on my coat.
He turned. Saw me. And his eyes—those sad, careful hazel eyes—softened instantly, filling with tears.
“You came,” he said. His voice was rough with emotion, deeper than I remembered, steady.
“Eli?” I whispered, stepping closer, my boots squeaking on the linoleum. “Is that… is that you?”
He nodded, a small, shy smile touching his lips. “Yeah… it’s me, Abby.”
I held up the dinner bag like an idiot. “I brought food. It’s… it’s chicken. Mom made me promise.”
He smiled, but it was shaky and sad. “She taught you well… your mother. She never missed a year. I knew she wouldn’t let a little thing like death stop her from feeding me.”
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat growing until it felt like a stone. “Why are you dressed like… that? You look…”
“Like a person?” he finished for me, gently.
“Like you’re going to church,” I said.
Eli looked down at the lilies in his hand. The white petals were stark against his dark jacket.
“They’re for your mom,” he said softly. “I was hoping you’d come. I was waiting for you.”
My heart raced. “She’s gone, Eli. She passed in October. It was fast.”
“I know,” he said. “I know she is.”
My heart thudded so loudly I could barely hear him say the next part.
“How did you know?” I asked. “We didn’t put it in the paper… only online.”
“I tried to find you after the funeral, Abby,” he said. “I checked the obituaries every day after she stopped coming by in the summer. I knew she was sick. She didn’t tell me, but I knew. She lost weight. She walked slower. I stood at the back of the church during the service. I stood in the shadows. I didn’t want to intrude. I wasn’t ready then. I didn’t look like this yet.”
I stepped back, confused. “What are you talking about? What do you mean you weren’t ready?”
“I needed you to know something,” he said, gesturing to the chairs. “Something your mom asked me not to tell you until I could prove I wasn’t just a guy in a corner anymore. Until I could stand in front of you as an equal.”
We sat down on the hard plastic chairs near the dryers. The air smelled of fresh laundry and old floors. The hum of the machines felt like a heartbeat.
Eli placed the lilies beside him like they were breakable. He clasped his hands together, looking at his knuckles.
Then quietly, he said, “Do you remember getting lost at the county fair when you were little? You must have been six or seven. Before I started sleeping here.”
A chill crawled up my spine.
I nodded slowly. “I… yes. I thought I’d imagined that. It’s such a blurry memory. I remember the lights and the noise.”
“You didn’t imagine it,” he paused, looking at me intently. “You ran up to me crying. I was just walking by the rides, looking for bottles to return for deposit money. I was at my lowest then. You grabbed my leg and asked for your mommy.”
I blinked, the memory sharpening. The terror of the crowd. The towering legs of strangers. “A cop found me. He gave me a lollipop.”
“A cop took you from me,” he corrected gently. “But I found you first. I was the one who stopped you from running into the parking lot. You were heading straight for the traffic.”
He described the glitter butterfly I’d had painted on my cheek that day. He described the red sneakers with the Velcro straps I was wearing.
He was right. And it broke something open inside me.
“I didn’t want to scare you, Abby. I was dirty. People looked at me like I was trash. But I knelt down. I told you to look at the Ferris Wheel. I held your hand and walked you toward the security booth… to the cop. Your mom came running the moment she saw us.”
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