Hospitals have their own seasons.
Not just flu season or holiday rushes—but emotional weather. You start to notice the patterns. The quiet storms. The weeks when people flatline at 2 a.m. without warning, or the mornings when everyone decides to live. And then there are the days like today—grey, neither heavy nor light. Just… waiting.
We were doing inventory.
Trevor called it "the janitorial equivalent of purgatory." Shelves of gauze, gloves, cleaning supplies, and expired labels with mystery stains. Jude grumbled through the whole thing, clipboard in one hand, coffee in the other. Kip had shown up in a button-down shirt and insisted we use a "scoring matrix" he invented to measure mop head morale. No one knew what that meant, and none of us asked.
Everett didn't speak. He moved down the row with practiced grace, counting things I didn't realize we tracked. His eyes were a little more tired than usual. But his hands never shook.
I stayed near the back of the supply room, half-listening, half-floating. Camila's voice still lingered from the night before. Her drawing was in my locker now, right next to a sticky note that just said, "You stay when you don't have to."
"You alright?" Trevor asked, nudging my elbow with a box of trash bags.
"Yeah," I lied.
He handed me a Sharpie. "Then label these. You've got neat handwriting and emotionally repressed energy."
I smirked. "Thanks, I think."
---
Halfway through the shift, the power flickered.
It didn't go out entirely—just dimmed for a breath, like the building exhaled. Everyone froze for a second, then kept moving. But it was enough to knock out the auto-lock on one of the main supply cabinets.
We opened it expecting the usual: bedpans, wipes, emergency linens.
Instead, we found a box labeled **"Miscellaneous Returns."**
Inside: one broken stethoscope, a cracked bed alarm, an old nurse's badge, and a notebook with a worn leather cover.
Kip tried to claim it as a historic artifact. "This could be pre-EHR era. Ancient nurse scrolls."
Jude took it, flipped through the pages, and read a few lines. Then he handed it to me.
"You should see this," he said, softer than usual.
It was a journal.
Not by a doctor. Not by a nurse.
By a janitor.
The entries were short. Simple. Some dated back a decade.
> "Mopped Room 319. Patient smiled. Said it was the first time someone looked her in the eye all day."
> "Lost a kid today. Not mine. Doesn't matter. Still hurts."
> "Fixed a bed rail. Left a granola bar. Found it untouched the next day. Wonder if they knew it was a peace offering."
> "Sometimes I think we mop to give the pain somewhere to go."
I flipped through in silence, each page like a soft punch to the chest.
One entry stopped me cold.
> "418. Young woman. Scared. Drew pictures of everyone but herself. Left one on her table. Took it. Couldn't help it. Needed to remember what quiet bravery looks like."
I swallowed hard.
I knew it wasn't Camila—this was from years ago. But it *felt* like her. Like the universe had left breadcrumbs in reverse.
Everett stepped beside me, eyes flicking to the page, then back to my face.
"You ever seen this before?" I asked.
He nodded once. "It's not mine. But I've read it."
"Who wrote it?"
"No one you'd know," he said. "But someone who knew us."
---
We finished inventory in silence after that.
Something about that journal shifted the tone. Even Kip got quieter. Jude stopped making jokes. Trevor labeled supplies like he was writing letters.
And me?
I started to wonder how many stories were hiding in the walls. How many people had walked these halls like we did—carrying things no chart ever recorded.
When we finally locked up the supply room, Everett lingered.
He looked at the cabinet, then handed me the journal.
"You keep it," he said. "It belongs with someone still writing."
I held it like a relic. "Thanks."
He nodded and walked away.
---
Later that evening, I passed by Camila's room.
She was asleep, sketchpad still resting on her lap. A new page, half-finished, showed what looked like our supply room. Except in her version, the shelves were overflowing with light.
I didn't knock.
I just smiled and kept walking.
Because some nights, the hospital doesn't need saving.
It just needs remembering.