The Man Who Wrote His Goodby

The Man Who Wrote His Goodby

Every morning since she turned thirty, Nina Alvarez followed the same quiet ritual — brewed coffee, gentle jazz, and the city paper spread across her small kitchen table, once owned by her mother. It was her way of feeling anchored in a world that often spun too fast.

But nothing prepared her for what she saw that Thursday.

“Professor Elias Ward, 67, passed away peacefully on Wednesday evening…”

The mug slipped slightly in her hand. Her chest tightened.

No.

She had seen Elias just yesterday, walking near the old university chapel. His gait was slow but familiar, his coat two sizes too big, drifting in the breeze. She had hesitated to wave, unsure if he’d recognize her.

Now she was reading his obituary.

Elias Ward wasn’t just a professor; he was once her mentor. A historian with a voice like worn leather and eyes that held more sorrow than most dared to carry. When Nina took his class a decade ago, she found herself drawn not just to the material but to the man. He had a way of speaking that made the past feel like it still mattered.

Then, one spring, he vanished from campus. No farewell, no explanation. Rumors whispered of a personal tragedy — a lost sibling, perhaps. Others guessed he’d simply tired of the world. Nina always wondered.

Now this.

The final line struck her hardest: **“He leaves no family, but many former students who remember his passion.

That evening, against reason, she visited the address listed. She didn’t know what she hoped for maybe truth, maybe peace.

The house stood quiet beneath overgrown trees, its porch creaking under the weight of time. The front door was open just a crack.

She stepped inside.

Books lined every wall. Dust floated in the fading light. A faint melody played from a record in the corner, warbling like a memory.

Then a cough, from the back garden.

Nina turned.

“And there he was. Alive.”

Sitting on a wooden bench beneath a maple tree, a journal in his lap, Elias Ward looked up and met her eyes.

“Nina,” he said gently, as if she’d never left.

She stared. “The obituary…?”

He gave a tired smile. “I wrote it.”

“Why?”

“To see who still cared. Who might show up.”

“That’s insane,” she said. “And cruel.”

He nodded. “Maybe. But being alone plays tricks on you.”

She sat beside him, stunned.

“You mattered, Elias. You still do,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

His expression cracked — not with madness, but with relief.

“I just needed to know.”

They spoke for hours. About history, regret, and how some people live longer in memory than in flesh.

Before she left, he handed her a thin, leather-bound notebook.

“Essays I never shared,” he said. “For when I’m really gone.”

Three months later, the news came again.

This time, real.

But Nina didn’t grieve.

She remembered.

And in the scribbled thoughts of a lonely man, he still lived.