I never expected to see Serena again after our divorce, especially not in a place that seemed designed to collect sorrow and hold it in suspended silence. Hospitals have a particular atmosphere, one made of disinfectant, hushed footsteps, and the low hum of machines that never truly rest. Every face you pass carries its own private worry, its own quiet fear. Two months after we had signed the last papers and gone our separate ways, I walked into that hallway in northern California for an unrelated appointment, distracted and tired, thinking only about getting in and out as quickly as possible. Then I saw her. She was sitting alone on a plastic chair near the wall, wrapped in a thin, pale gown that looked too large for her now, her hands folded carefully in her lap as if she were trying to make herself smaller. For a second, I honestly thought my mind was playing tricks on me, pulling her image out of memory and placing it in front of me like some cruel hallucination. She looked nothing like the woman I had once known so well, the woman who used to hum while cooking dinner and fall asleep with a book resting on her chest.