Yesterday, I went to the hospital for a routine check-up for my hypertension. As usual, the outpatient clinic was bustling with patients. To streamline the process, the nurse had devised an efficient system: while the doctor attended to one patient in the consultation room, she would call the next patient into the waiting area for preliminary checks, such as measuring blood pressure. Simultaneously, she would print out the prescription and schedule the next visit for the patient who had just finished.

Finally, it was my turn. As I opened the door, a lady—the previous patient—was about to leave. I didn’t pay much attention to her, though she thanked me for letting her pass. She appeared to be around my age, perhaps a bit younger. But in a cardiology clinic, most patients are seniors like me, so I thought little of it. After my check-up, the nurse opened the door and called the lady back to collect her prescription. When the nurse called out her name—a name I could never forget—I was stunned.

My heart raced as I abruptly stood up and hurried to the door. "Could it be her?" I wondered nervously. I glanced at her again, but I couldn’t be sure. After all, how can you recognize someone, even a parent, after 45 years apart? When I returned to the waiting room, I asked the nurse to confirm the characters of the name she had just called. She showed me the name—it was the same one I had been longing to hear. Yet, I still couldn’t be certain it was her. Perhaps it was just a coincidence, a shared name. But my heart was pounding with emotion nonetheless.

This took me back to my days living in a quiet suburb of Taipei, a rural area far removed from the city’s hustle. I was a senior in college, and she was a 12th grader at a prestigious girls’ high school. Living in the same neighborhood, we often crossed paths at the bus stop in the mornings, as buses were infrequent back then. She was an elegant young woman, not strikingly beautiful, but with a girl-next-door charm that captivated me. I would often admire her from afar, stealing glances at her back. I was filled with admiration, but the social norms of the time prevented me from approaching her directly. I couldn’t risk being seen as a masher. Her final year in high school, with her neatly cropped hair and green uniform, passed quickly. She went off to college, and I was drafted into military service on a remote island. A year later, when I returned to Taipei, my family had moved to another district. I never saw her again—until yesterday, if it was indeed her.

You might wonder how I knew her name without ever speaking to her. I had caught a glimpse of it on her uniform one day when we were close together on the bus. Though my eyes are no longer as sharp as they once were, my heart remains eternally young.