He slapped my hand away and marched toward the bathroom.
I followed. Every step felt like walking on blades.
He froze before the mirror. Blinked. Leaned closer, scrutinizing his reflection—the frost at his temples, the deep crow's feet. Handsome, yes, but not the twenty-year-old in his mind.
A stranger.
His fists clenched, face flushing crimson.
"I should be with Amy right now. The prime of my life... we should be married. We should have a warm home. You ruined everything!"
All strength drained from my legs. Decades of memories crashed over me.
Young Elijah was a man of few words. I thought it was his nature, so I learned patience.
Middle-aged Elijah was consumed by work. I never complained—just kept his dinner warm, drew his bath.
Old Elijah sat with me in silence. I was naive enough to think it was peace.
But the truth shattered me: he wasn't silent because he had nothing to say. He was silent because he didn't want to talk to me.
A bone-deep exhaustion settled into my marrow.
"Since your heart is set on Amy Gray," I said, my voice eerily calm, "I'll find her. Bring her here to keep you company. Consider your wish granted."
I threw a few essentials into a bag and headed for the door.