Page 66 of The Valentine Agenda

He stood at his window, watching night fall over the city, remembering how Hannah's voice had trembled when she'd talked about being truly seen.

He'd been the kind of man who could walk past Hannah Miller every day and never notice she was the most important thing he'd ever overlooked.

The city lights blurred before him, and James let out a shaky breath.

All he could hear was the echo of every time he'd failed her.

Every time he'd looked right through her.

Every morning he'd wasted, not seeing what was right in front of him.

James pressed his forehead against the cool glass, feeling utterly lost.

Because how did you forgive yourself for being blind to the most beautiful thing in your world?

How did you ever make up for the time you wasted, not seeing what mattered?

How did you convince someone you were worth trusting, when you'd spent so long proving you weren't?

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Hannah

The lobby was too quiet.

Hannah paused in front of the tilted watercolor—the lake in autumn.

The frame sat crooked, taunting her. She reached up, then stopped. Because this wasn't about the painting, was it? This was about how empty the lobby felt without James appearing behind her, watching her fix it with that half-smile she pretended not to notice.

Snow had started falling outside, thick flakes catching in the morning light. The sidewalk would need clearing soon. She knew it would be done by the time she left for school—James quietly making sure elderly residents could navigate safely.

"Morning, dear." Mrs. Peterson shuffled past, her walker scraping against salt-scattered marble. "Careful out there. It's getting slippery."

Hannah's chest tightened. James remembered Mrs. Peterson's arthritis, how the cold made her joints ache.

"I'll help you," Hannah offered, but Mrs. Peterson waved her off.

James would help her. Hannah busied herself adjusting her teaching bag, avoiding Mrs. Peterson's too-perceptive gaze.

The frame tilted mockingly. Hannah's hand moved without conscious thought, straightening it with practiced precision. The action felt hollow now—like something was missing from this familiar routine.

Maybe in the end it would be better this way. Simpler. The lobby was just a lobby again, not a stage for careful encounters and held breaths. And James Park was just another resident.

Her eyes kept drifting to the empty spaces where James used to be, and her heart kept noticing all the ways he'd made their lives better—one unacknowledged kindness at a time.

The snow fell harder, covering everything outside in clean white silence. But Hannah was no longer pretending the ache in her chest was just from the cold.

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Hannah sat cross-legged on the community room floor, surrounded by her students' artwork. The easels stood perfectly steady now—someone had reinforced their bases overnight. The lighting had been adjusted too, casting warm, even light across each painting. Small touches that made everything work better, smoother.

She knew who had done it. Just like she knew who had organized the art supplies by color, who had installed the new display boards at exactly the right height for children to reach.

Tommy was explaining his latest painting to Mrs. Peterson, his small hands gesturing animatedly. "And see how the rain is scary but also putting water into the lake? That's what Ms. Miller taught us about feelings being complicated."

Hannah smiled, but her eyes caught on a fresh box of watercolor paper on the shelf—the expensive kind she'd mentioned wanting during a community meeting. She hadn't ordered it. The building's budget certainly hadn't covered it. But there it was, along with new brushes and precisely organized supplies.

"Ms. Miller?" Sarah tugged at her sleeve. "Why are the easels different?"

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