A year had passed since that day at the beach.
San Felino remained as it always had—quiet, warm, and cradled by the sea. But in the heart of town, where there had once been an overgrown lot by the fields, now stood something new. Something Rainan Alon had once only spoken of in hushed dreams.
The Alon Health and Education Center.
It wasn’t grand. Rainan would never have wanted it to be. But it was thoughtful. Beautiful in its simplicity. A single-story building with wide windows, soft wood, and halls that breathed. It looked like it had always belonged there—nestled between the hills and the heart of the community.
Inside, voices echoed: children reciting their lessons, a mother soothing her baby during a check-up, nurses offering warm instructions. There was laughter. Life. Healing.
This was Rainan's final dream. A place that offered care and knowledge. A space where people could be seen, heard, and helped. A place that would outlast him.
Near the entrance, a modest bronze plaque read:
“In memory of Rainan Alon—Architect, Son, Friend.
He built with love and left behind a home for healing and hope.”
That morning, Angelo arrived early. The morning sun bathed the center in soft gold. Dew still clung to the plants in the garden Rainan had once sketched in the margins of his notebook.
Angelo walked slowly through the halls. A little boy smiled and waved at him while clutching a book to his chest. In one corner, two teenage girls were helping a younger one with her reading. A nurse nodded as she walked past him, clipboard in hand, her eyes gentle.
Mikaela came shortly after, her daughter Clara skipping ahead, holding a bouquet of fresh kalachuchi flowers.
“Can I put these by his name?” Clara asked.
Angelo nodded and watched as the child placed them carefully beneath the plaque, her small hands brushing the metal with a kind of reverence.
“He’d be proud,” Mikaela whispered beside him.
“He would,” Angelo replied, voice soft.
Throughout the day, familiar faces passed through the center. Adrian arrived just after noon, carrying a bag of donated medical supplies and a few new books for the reading corner. He was quieter than usual, his eyes misty as he looked around, taking in what Rainan had left behind.
“I still hear his voice sometimes,” Adrian murmured to Angelo as they shared a quiet moment near the garden. “Every time I sit with a plan, or look over a build. He’s there, pointing out what I missed or saying I made the right call. As annoying and brilliant as ever.”
Angelo gave a small laugh. “Yeah. He hasn’t gone far.”
Later in the afternoon, Lance showed up with a tray of his homemade ensaymada and a paper bag filled with donated soaps and hygiene kits. He cracked jokes to the staff and passed sweets around to the children, but when he paused beside the plaque, his smile faltered.
“Hey, Rainan,” he whispered. “Still bossing us around, huh?”
He stood there for a while, hand resting lightly on the wall, before joining the others.
By late afternoon, the sun began to dip, painting the sky in soft pinks and amber. The center slowly quieted as families went home, and the last of the day’s laughter faded into the breeze.
But Angelo stayed behind.
He carried with him not just the weight of absence, but a bundle wrapped in kraft paper—the last sketchbook Rainan had used in the hospital. It had taken him months to bring himself to open it.
Inside were drawings. All of Angelo.
Some detailed. Some rough. One of him laughing. One asleep in a chair. Each page was a piece of how Rainan had seen him. How deeply he had loved.
At the very back, tucked behind a fold of paper, was a letter—written in Rainan’s familiar, deliberate handwriting.
---
To you, my sun.
I never told you, not in words. Maybe I was afraid. Maybe I was selfish. Maybe I thought I had more time.
But sketching you gave me peace. Loving you—even in silence—gave my days meaning.
Thank you for the laughter, for the teasing, for the quiet. Thank you for walking beside me even when the road grew darker.
If you're reading this, then I’ve already left—but don’t think of this as goodbye.
I built this place because of you. Because of how you made me want to leave something behind. Something gentle. Something that could hold people the way you held me, even when you didn’t know you were doing it.
I hope you smile more. I hope you eat real food. I hope you find new ways to dream.
And I hope, on some mornings, when the wind is soft and the sun feels like a hand on your shoulder, you remember me—not as the man who left, but as the one who loved you in every sketch, every look, every quiet moment.
With everything I had,
—Rainan
---
Angelo closed the sketchbook slowly, hands trembling as he cradled it to his chest.
The ache returned like a tide, steady and full—but with it came warmth. A warmth that didn’t burn. A warmth that reminded him Rainan had lived. Had loved. And had given that love to him fully.
He stood up, brushing away a tear that had slipped down his cheek, and made his way out of the center and into the outskirts of town—toward the mango tree that shaded a quiet grave.
No marble. No grandeur. Just stone, soil, and always, fresh flowers.
Angelo knelt, laying the sketchbook beside the blooms.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice catching. “I know you’d say I’m being dramatic, talking to a stone and all... but I like to think you’re still listening.”
The wind moved gently, rustling the branches above.
Angelo placed the letter beside the flowers. He didn’t read it aloud. He didn’t need to.
“I miss you,” he whispered. “Every day. And I see you, too... in the kids running around, in the way people smile when they enter the center, in every damn sunset. You’re still here.”
He closed his eyes, letting the silence speak back.
As the sun dipped further below the hills, Angelo stayed for a while longer. Just sitting. Just breathing. Just remembering.
And in that quiet, it felt—for a moment—as if Rainan was sitting beside him again.
Not as a ghost.
But as a promise kept.