Chapter 26: Quiet Bridges

Back in New York, the air had turned cold enough to keep people indoors and thoughts buried deep. The studio felt emptier without Lena, though Emma had filled the silence with work, motion, and purpose.

But there were moments—long, still ones—when she paused mid-sketch and expected to hear Lena's voice behind her. When she turned with a question, forgetting that the person who had always answered wasn't just down the hall anymore.

Emma stood now in the shared workroom, a mug of tea going cold in her hands, when she heard the front door open. She knew the gait instantly—measured steps, polished shoes, a pause before entering fully.

Alexander.

He had been coming by less frequently since Lena left. Perhaps to give Emma space. Perhaps to give himself some.

She looked up and smiled faintly. "Hey."

He returned the smile, soft and tired. "You're still here."

"I live here now," she joked lightly, motioning to the pile of jackets on the couch and the empty food containers beside her.

He stepped in and surveyed the room. "You've made it your own."

She didn't respond right away. Then: "Not really. It still feels like hers."

Alexander moved closer, taking a seat across from her, mirroring her posture—hands cradling a coffee cup, shoulders slightly hunched. They sat for a while in the kind of silence that wasn't awkward, just real.

"She wrote me," he said finally.

Emma's eyes flicked to his. "I know. She told me."

"She said she might take a project in Marseille. A yearlong lead."

The words sat heavy between them.

"And?" Emma asked, voice carefully even.

He sighed. "And I don't know if I should tell her not to. Or if I should let her go."

Emma leaned back, eyes searching his face. "Why not ask yourself what she would want you to say?"

He frowned slightly. "I've spent most of my life not saying what I feel."

"I know," she said quietly. "But she still heard you. Maybe this time, you should let her hear you clearly."

Alexander didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

Emma's breath caught. "Is that—?"

"A design." He unfolded it. It was rough, more like a concept sketch than anything formal. A rooftop garden. A simple space. Quiet corners. And one long bench with two silhouettes drawn on it—one facing forward, the other facing sideways, like they were waiting for someone else to arrive.

"She always said she wanted to build something that didn't feel like architecture," he murmured. "She wanted it to feel like memory."

Emma's voice was soft. "That's how she builds everything."

He looked at her, really looked this time. "So do you."

Their eyes met, and something passed between them—acknowledgement, affection, the complex bond of two people tied together by one woman and an entire world she changed.

"She'll come back," Emma said finally.

Alexander looked down at the sketch. "You think so?"

"She's just figuring out who she is without us," Emma replied. "That's not goodbye. That's growth."

Alexander smiled faintly. "You've grown too."

"I had a good teacher," she said. "Two, actually."

And for the first time in weeks, Alexander laughed.

Not loudly.

But honestly.

That night, Emma sent a voice message to Lena. She stood on the rooftop, the cold wind threading through her hair, and said simply:

"We're okay down here. But it's quieter. You're missed. He misses you too. Even if he doesn't say it yet. I think he's building something. Not out of stone this time, but out of what you left behind. Come home when you're ready. We'll be here."