The Fourth Man

I remember the summer I turned nineteen, when my grandfather, Alonso, began his slow descent into the haze of sickness. He was a man of routine, a retired fisherman who lived in the same coastal house for nearly sixty years, and his house was our sanctuary. Every Sunday, my mother, my sister, and I would drive the winding road along the cliffs to visit him. We’d sit on his porch, listen to his stories of the sea, and watch the gulls dive for scraps. He was the anchor of our family, the one who held us together after my father passed.

When he fell ill, it was sudden. A stroke that left him weak and bedridden, but his mind was still sharp, at least at first. We took him to the hospital in the nearby town, and for two weeks, we made that trip every day, taking turns sitting by his bed. He was in a private room on the third floor, overlooking the parking lot and the gray ocean beyond. The days bled together, marked only by the slow progress of his decline and the occasional flicker of clarity in his eyes.

It was during those days that he started talking about the man. ‘There’s a man in the corner,’ he’d say, his voice a rasping whisper, his eyes fixed on the empty space near the window. At first we thought it was the medication, the delirium that often comes with such illness. We’d humor him, ask him what the man looked like, and he’d describe a tall figure in a dark coat, with a face that seemed to shift like fog. He said the man never spoke, just watched, always watching.

My mother and I exchanged worried glances but tried to soothe him. ‘There’s no one there, Dad,’ she’d say, stroking his hand. But Alonso would insist, his gaze unwavering. ‘He’s waiting for something,’ he’d murmur. ‘He’s been here since I arrived.’ The nurses said it was common for patients in his condition to hallucinate, especially as organs began to fail. We accepted that, though the unease lingered.

As the days passed, Alonso grew weaker, his lucid moments fewer. He spoke less of the man and more of his own childhood, of swimming in the cold Atlantic with his brothers and sisters. He mentioned his older sister, Rosa, who had died five years before, and his brother, Miguel, who had passed when Alonso was just a boy. ‘They’re here,’ he said one afternoon, his voice surprisingly clear. ‘Rosa and Miguel, they’re just outside the door.’ He smiled, a peaceful expression that made my heart ache.

We humored him, telling him he’d be with them soon. But then, on the tenth day, something changed. Alonso was more alert than he’d been in days, his eyes sharp and frightened. He grabbed my mother’s arm with surprising strength and said, ‘There’s a fourth man. Not the one in the corner. A new one. He’s behind the others, near the door. He’s wearing a hat. I don’t know him.’

My mother tried to calm him, but Alonso’s gaze went to the door, and his face drained of color. ‘He’s coming closer,’ he breathed. ‘He’s not like the others. Rosa and Miguel are afraid of him.’ We all looked at the door, half expecting someone to walk in, but there was no one. The room was silent except for the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor.

On the final day, Alonso was barely conscious. We were all there, holding his hands, telling him we loved him. He opened his eyes once, looked past us, and whispered, ‘They’re all here now. Even Rosa. But the man in the hat is standing behind them. He’s smiling at me.’ And then he was gone, a soft exhale, and the room was still.

After he passed, we were all in a haze of grief. I remember walking to the window, looking out at the gray sea, and that’s when I saw him. A man in the parking lot, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, looking up at us. He stood perfectly still, his face obscured by the shadow of the brim. I felt a sudden chill, and I knew, with a certainty that defied reason, that this was the man from my grandfather’s visions. I watched until he turned and walked away, disappearing around the corner of the hospital.

In the years since, I’ve never forgotten that figure. But it wasn’t until last year, when my mother was in a similar condition, that I saw him again. She was in a hospice in the city, far from the coast, and in her final days, she began speaking of a man in a hat. She said he was standing in the doorway, waiting. And when she passed, I looked out the window, and there he was, on the sidewalk below, looking up at me. I know it was him. The fourth man. He’s always there, waiting for the ones we love, and one day, he’ll come for us all.