He thought it was their first date; she knew it was their anniversary.

They met under the clock at Union Station, the one that had been running late for years and yet never missed a soul. Thomas arrived ten minutes early, a habit drilled into him by a father who believed punctuality was a kind of honesty. He wore a blue jacket he reserved for interviews and weddings and, on one foolish occasion, a funeral. He held a single white carnation because roses felt like too much for a first date and daisies felt like he was trying to be clever.

Maria watched him from across the hall, her reflection doubling in the glass. She smiled in the way a woman smiles when she knows a joke she won’t tell yet. It was their tenth anniversary—paper, if she remembered the old list correctly. Ten years since he’d stood in this same place, sweating through a borrowed suit, asking her if she liked Italian food and if she’d ever been to the river after dark.

Thomas checked his phone. No messages. He straightened his jacket. When Maria crossed the floor toward him, he noticed how she walked with that same measured grace, the kind that made small spaces feel orderly. He saw her eyes light on him and thought, She looks familiar in a comforting way, which is what he always thought, and what he never quite understood.

“Hi,” he said, extending the carnation. “I’m Thomas.”

She took the flower and inhaled, then laughed softly. “I know,” she said. “You always bring something white.”

He blinked. “Do I?”

“You do.” She slipped her arm through his. “Shall we?”

They walked out into the evening where the city had learned to breathe slowly. Streetlamps hummed. A busker played an old hymn on a harmonica, and for a moment Thomas thought of Jesus the way his grandmother had taught him to—gentle, persistent, patient with misunderstandings.

They went to the little Italian place near the river, the one with red-checked cloths and a waiter who remembered faces better than names. Thomas studied the menu like it was an exam. Maria ordered for both of them, as she always did, though he couldn’t recall when that habit began.

“You like the gnocchi,” she said.

“I do?” he asked.

“You do.”

Wine arrived. Bread followed. Thomas relaxed. He told her about work—about the community newsletter he edited, the way he kept meaning to submit a piece to Novelo, the online magazine that promised exposure and a Cash Prize for the most votes. He laughed at himself. “I don’t know why I care about that sort of thing.”

Maria tore bread and listened. “You care because you always have,” she said. “You like being counted.”

He frowned, then smiled. “You’re good at guessing.”

After dinner they walked to the river. The water reflected the city like a memory that had learned to behave. Maria stopped at the railing. She set the carnation down, its white bright against iron.

“Do you remember this?” she asked.

Thomas felt something stir. “I’ve been here before.”

She nodded. “You asked me a question here.”

He tried to laugh it off. “I ask lots of questions.”

“Not like that one.” She took his hand. “You asked if I would stay, even if things got strange.”

A breeze lifted the edges of his thoughts. He searched for the word anniversary and couldn’t find it, like a book misplaced on a shelf he was sure existed.

“Maria,” he said slowly, tasting her name as if it were new. “How do we know each other?”

She didn’t flinch. “We’ve been married ten years.”

The river went quiet. The city held its breath.

“That’s not—” He stopped. His mind reached back and touched something soft and solid: a small apartment with mismatched mugs; a hospital room with winter light; a child’s drawing taped to a fridge, though they never had children. He pressed his fingers to his temple. “I forget things,” he said. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” she agreed. “Tonight, you forgot what tonight is.”

He sat on a bench. She sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders knew each other. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did,” she said. “Last year. And the year before. We decided—together—that it’s kinder to let you discover us again.”

He swallowed. “And you’re okay with that?”

She smiled, and there were tears in it, old and new at once. “Love isn’t a quiz,” she said. “It’s a practice.”

They watched the water. Somewhere a church bell rang the hour. Thomas thought of the hymn earlier and how faith had always felt less like certainty and more like returning to a place you trust.

“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me how we met.”

Maria told him everything, carefully, like laying out photographs. She told him about the clock, the carnation, the gnocchi. She told him about vows spoken plain and kept the old way. She told him about the nights he woke frightened and the mornings he woke brave. She told him about how he wrote stories that gathered quiet readers, how once, just once, his piece won most votes and he laughed like a boy with a ribbon.

“And Jesus?” he asked, surprising himself.

She squeezed his hand. “You talk to Him when you’re lost,” she said. “You say, ‘Walk with me.’”

When they stood to leave, Thomas felt steadier. He kissed her cheek with the reverence of a man greeting both stranger and home.

“Happy anniversary,” he said, the word finally finding him.

Maria picked up the carnation and tucked it behind her ear. “Happy first date,” she replied, and together they walked back under the clock, on time at last.