December turned into January. The snow piled up on the fire escape. The windows frosted over. The radiators hissed but the apartment stayed cold.
Maya woke each morning to grey light. She lay in bed, listening to the city. The plows on the street. The buses on Crown. The distant sound of the subway.
Leo was already up. He sat in the living room, reading the news on his phone. A cup of coffee sat on the floor next to him.
"You're up early," she said.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Bad dreams?"
"Same ones."
She sat next to him. The floor was cold. She pulled a blanket around her shoulders.
"Your mother?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I dream that she's still alive. That the cancer was a mistake. That the doctors were wrong." He set down his phone. "Then I wake up."
Maya leaned her head on his shoulder. "I dream about Mrs. Patterson. She's on the roof. She's watering the garden. She's telling me to fix the bridge cables."
"What do you say?"
"I say I'm trying."
He kissed her hair. "We're both trying."
---
The new year came.
No party. No champagne. Maya and Leo sat on the floor of the living room, eating takeout from the bodega. The food was cold. The rice was dry.
"Happy new year," Leo said.
"Happy new year."
"Any resolutions?"
"To draw more. To worry less." She looked at him. "To marry you in the spring."
He almost smiled. "That's three resolutions."
"I'm ambitious."
He took her hand. "I love you."
"I love you too."
---
January passed slowly.
Maya spent her days in the studio. She drew the snow. The fire escape. The courtyard buried in white. She drew the broken birdbath, now a small mountain. She drew the tarp, barely visible.
She drew Leo. Reading. Sleeping. Drinking coffee. She drew his hands. His eyes. The way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't watching.
She filled sketchbooks. Page after page.
One evening, she found an envelope under the door.
Handwritten. No return address.
She opened it.
Dear Maya,
This is Rosa. My father passed away this morning. He went in his sleep. Peacefully.
He asked me to write to you. He said you would want to know.
He kept your drawing. The one of him in the lobby. It was on his nightstand.
Thank you for being his friend.
— Rosa
Maya read the letter three times.
Then she sat on the floor. She didn't cry. She just sat.
Leo came in. He saw the letter. He sat next to her.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"He's with Mrs. Patterson now."
"Maybe."
"On the roof. Watering the garden."
Leo took her hand. "That's a nice thought."
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "I'm tired of people dying."
"I know."
"I'm tired of saying goodbye."
"Then don't say goodbye. Say 'see you later.'"
She looked at him. "That's not realistic."
"It's not supposed to be realistic. It's supposed to be hopeful."
She closed her eyes. The desk lamp flickered.
---
The funeral was in Ohio.
Maya couldn't go. The bus was too expensive. The weather was too bad. She sent flowers. Roses, because Mr. Delgado had once said he missed the roses his wife used to grow.
Rosa sent a photo. The casket. The flowers. A small crowd of people Maya didn't know.
She put the photo on the wall of the studio, next to the painting of the roof.
"He's gone," she said.
Leo stood behind her. "He's not gone. He's in the walls."
"That's what Mr. Chen said about Mrs. Patterson."
"Same walls."
She turned to look at him. "You're not funny."
"I'm not trying to be."
---
February came.
The snow melted. The ice on the fire escape turned to water. The courtyard was a muddy mess.
Maya went outside. She pulled back the tarp. The soil was wet. Dark. Ready.
She knelt in the mud. She turned the dirt with her hands. The cold seeped through her gloves.
Leo came down. "You're going to freeze."
"I'm going to plant."
"It's February. Nothing grows in February."
"Something grows. Under the soil. Waiting."
He knelt next to her. "You're stubborn."
"I learned from the best."
They worked in silence. Turning the dirt. Pulling weeds. Breaking up clumps of frozen soil.
By the end of the day, the garden was ready. The tarp was folded. The soil was turned.
Maya sat on the ground. Her jeans were wet. Her hands were numb.
"Seeds," she said. "Next week."
"Next week."
---
She went to the hardware store on Nostrand.
The same store. The same man behind the counter.
"Tomatoes?" he asked.
"And basil. And morning glories."
He nodded. He bagged the seeds. Maya paid.
On the way home, she passed the old building. Or where the old building used to be.
An empty lot. Fenced off. A sign: Coming Soon – Luxury Condos.
She stood at the fence. The lot was empty. The rubble was gone. The water tank was gone. The painted eye was gone.
She put her hand on the chain-link fence. The metal was cold.
"Goodbye," she said.
She walked home.