The letter stays on the pin board for almost a week. Then it's gone.
It's gone and no one notices, because Weaver's away, and then there are two children in the ER with smallpox, and everyone's in lockdown, and then it's just Carter and Abby; Pratt and Chen; Stan.
Then it's back to normal; the ER is bustling again. Patients and staff alike walk through the ER and no one notices the letter is gone until Kerry Weaver walks past it to enter the break room, and realises it's not there.
She doesn't say anything; after the past month, she wants to concentrate on her work, both as a physician and an administrator. Wants everyone else to concentrate on their work; treating and streeting Chicago's ill; injured; idiots. She goes about her business, albeit quieter than normal.
But when she goes home – to find the apartment dark and quiet, with candles lit and the smell of pizza wafting towards her – she can't help but feel a weight lifting off her shoulders. Her facade is dropped, and then she's holding Sandy close to her, letting her emotions escape. Sandy doesn't say anything, ask anything – and Kerry is grateful for this: she's not sure she can talk about it – but holds Kerry's body against her own and feels her relaxing in her arms.
"You want some pizza?" That's the offer, and then the two women are sitting down, not at the table, where Sandy had put candles that are now blown out, but on the couch, in each other's arms.
The room is quiet, and they're leaning against each other and it's then that Sandy hears her whisper "I miss him." Sandy's arms tighten around Kerry, and she presses her lips to Kerry's forehead.
One day, it won't hurt anymore.