Westbridge felt like a living thing that morning. Not the kind that thrived, but the kind that pulsed just beneath the skin, restless and waiting. The lights were dimmer. The elevators slower. Voices barely lifted above a murmur, as though the hospital itself feared waking something dangerous. Nora moved through it with the same practiced calm as always, but the weight in the air had shifted. It wasn't just paranoia anymore. It was presence.
No one had blamed her directly for what happened in 4B. There were no memos, no formal reprimands, no committee hearings. But in Westbridge, silence was a language, and that language had already delivered its verdict. Conversations faded when she entered a room. Colleagues looked away a fraction too quickly. Glances lingered with questions no one had the nerve to ask. She didn't flinch. But she heard them all the same.
When she reached Station 3B, she slowed, letting her gaze drift toward the computer terminal. It was ordinary. Unremarkable. But to her, it had become the epicenter of everything. That terminal had been used to alter a medication dosage under her name. That was where the fracture in her world had opened. Where someone had decided that Nora Keane would make an excellent scapegoat. She didn't stop walking, but something cold and unrelenting pressed harder against her ribs.
By nine o'clock, she had abandoned her rotation and descended into the hospital archives. Down there, the air was colder, the silence less pointed. It wasn't personal. It was architectural. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly. Dust clung to every surface. Metal cabinets loomed in rows like gravestones for forgotten patients.
She searched the boxes until her fingers landed on one labeled 2012. The year was burned into her memory. She lifted the lid with care, her breath already tightening.
Near the bottom of the stack was the folder.
Keane, Lily. Age: 15.
She opened it slowly. The paper inside was brittle with time. But the ink was clear. Blue, handwritten, formal. The report was brief. Complication post-medication. Respiratory failure. Resuscitation attempt failed. Time of death: 06:58.
Signed: Dr. K. Brenner.
She had expected it. She had spent months hunting this name. But now, reading it on the official page, she felt like she'd been hit by a silence deeper than grief. A silence filled with guilt, and something even heavier: confirmation.
Then she saw the line beneath.
Supervising Intern: R. Cardinal.
Her eyes froze. Her body stilled. That name.
She read it again. And again. Cardinal. Not a common name. Not in this hospital. Not in her life. And yet, suddenly, far too familiar.
She turned the page with trembling fingers. Another patient file. Different case. Same year. Same intern.
R. Cardinal.
She closed the folder and stood, tucking it into her bag like it might burn her if she held it too long.
That evening, the sky was soft gray, the kind of light that made everything look unfinished. She found Rowan in the stairwell near the west wing, seated on the third step, elbows on his knees. He didn't look up when she entered, but his voice met her anyway.
"You missed your shift."
She leaned against the opposite railing. "I was in archives."
"Looking for ghosts again?"
"Maybe."
He finally looked at her. His eyes were tired but focused. "Did you find one?"
"Just names," she answered. "Buried under others."
There was a pause between them, stretched thin like thread. He waited, but she didn't say more.
"Did you ever work under Brenner?" she asked, too casually.
His jaw shifted slightly. "Briefly. During med school."
"And your father… he's not in medicine, right?"
A pause. Just long enough to feel.
"No."
It wasn't a lie.
But it wasn't the truth.
She saw the flicker in his eyes. The calculation. The deflection. She didn't confront it not yet. But something inside her had shifted.
She stood up. "I should get back."
He didn't follow her, but his voice followed her to the door.
"Nora."
She turned.
"I'm on your side."
She didn't answer. She just nodded. Once. Then walked away.
Back in her apartment, the walls felt closer. She dropped her bag on the desk, pulled out the folder, and sat. The corner of Lily's file was bent, but the ink was sharp. Her finger traced the signature again.
R. Cardinal.
She opened her laptop and typed the name into the internal Westbridge system.
No match.
She tried again. The public medical database.
Nothing.
But she wasn't searching for confirmation.
She was searching for the lie.
The thread beneath the mask.
And now, she had it.