I had no car and no close family nearby. My sister had moved east years earlier and our conversations had dwindled into occasional holiday messages. My former partner had remarried and built a life that no longer had room for shared history. Friends from work faded away once I could no longer keep regular hours. Illness rearranges social circles in ways that feel impersonal but cut deeply.
What I did not expect was Elias.
The first time he showed up, I assumed there had been a scheduling mistake. He was sitting in the plastic chair next to my dialysis station, reading a thick paperback with a cracked spine, dressed in work boots and a faded jacket that smelled faintly of motor oil and soap.
“You waiting for someone?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
He looked up and smiled, a slow and unguarded expression that seemed to come naturally to him. “I am,” he said. “I am waiting for you.”
I remember thinking that he had to be confused, because no one waited for me in places like this.
“My name is Elias Roth,” he added, standing and offering his hand. “I volunteer here sometimes.”