Hospitals are loud in strange ways.
It's not just the alarms, the pagers, the click of keyboards or the buzz of fluorescents. It's the undercurrent. Like the building hums with everything that's ever happened inside it. The grief, the hope, the blood, the prayers—echoing through tile and vent shafts, soft as a whisper but never quite silent.
I stayed late that night.
Not because I had to. My shift ended at 7:00. But something about walking out into the dark felt heavier than usual. I'd showered in the locker room, put on a clean shirt, even stood at the door with my keys in hand. And then I turned around and went back upstairs.
The break room was empty. The coffee pot was off, the chairs pushed in, and someone had left half a granola bar on the table with a sticky note that said: "Not expired. Just brave."
I took it.
I wandered past the nurse's station, past the darkened rooms of patients tucked into shallow sleep. Past Marcus, who nodded at me once like we were both holding onto things too big for words.
Eventually, I ended up in the old palliative care wing. It's mostly unused now—just one or two long-term patients and a bunch of empty beds. The hallway lights dim a little earlier there. I like it. It feels honest.
That's when I saw her.
Room 418.
She was sitting up in bed with a sketchpad in her lap, lit only by the pale glow of her window. Her IV beeped softly, and her oxygen line curled like a question mark along her cheek. Early twenties, maybe. Bald from chemo, but beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with symmetry.
"Are you lost?" she asked.
I shook my head. "No. Just… wandering."
She smiled. "That's how I ended up here."
I stepped inside. "Mind if I sit?"
She nodded toward the chair. "Be my guest. But I'm not that interesting."
"You're drawing," I said.
"Everyone draws when they're dying," she replied. "Makes you feel like you're leaving something behind."
I didn't argue.
"What are you drawing?" I asked.
She turned the pad. It was a hallway. Not ours—but it felt like it. Dim, wide, stretching into nothing. In the middle of the hall was a janitor, mopping in complete stillness. No name tag. No face. Just a shadow with a purpose.
"That looks like someone I know," I said.
She looked at me. "Do you believe people can save lives without knowing it?"
I swallowed. "Yeah. I think the best ones do it quietly."
She nodded like she already knew that answer. "I saw him once," she said. "The man you're thinking of. He fixed my IV pump without saying a word. Everyone else walked past."
"That sounds like him," I said.
She tore the drawing out of her pad and handed it to me.
"Keep it," she said. "For when you forget what quiet looks like."
---
I didn't cry until I got to the stairwell.
Not because she was dying. But because she noticed *him*. Because someone actually saw Everett for what he was.
It made me think about all the people we pass by—Trevor with his broom and bright heart, Jude hiding kindness behind sarcasm, Kip who's trying so hard to impress people he doesn't realize we'd like him more if he just *stopped* trying.
And me.
What do they see when they look at me?
Do they see a nurse aide? A clipboard? The guy who's always *there*, but never really *seen*?
Or do they ever see the fire I keep putting out inside my own chest just to make room for everyone else?