The hospital never slept, but some nights it whispered louder than others.
Chioma stood at the nurse's station, chart in hand, eyes fixed on a blinking cursor on the screen before her. But her mind had drifted far from the patient in Room 207. Somewhere in her chest, the tension was tightening again—like her own ribs were folding inward. And though she had grown used to this ache, tonight it felt different. Heavier. Sharper.
Maybe it was because Mercy Ogbodo had returned.
Not as a patient. Not as a shadow from the past.
But as the new trauma resident.
"She signed in two hours ago," Nurse Amaka whispered as she nudged Chioma's elbow, her voice careful. "She asked for you."
Chioma didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Didn't even breathe.
"She asked for me, or she wanted to see me?" Chioma finally responded, keeping her voice steady.
"She asked if you were still working here. And then said she hoped you'd drop by ICU. You know what that means."
Chioma did. Mercy didn't make casual statements. She delivered messages layered with barbs, wrapped in silk.
She stepped out of the station like someone climbing into a battlefield. The ICU corridor was flooded with fluorescent light, and as she turned the final corner, she saw her—tall, statuesque, with hair clipped short and a stethoscope resting like royalty around her neck.
Mercy.
The woman Chioma once called sister.
The woman whose betrayal left a scar stitched with silence.
"Chi," Mercy said as if they had spoken yesterday. "You're still as poised as ever."
"You're still as bold," Chioma replied, her voice low. "What brings you back?"
Mercy exhaled. "I thought we might stop pretending."
Chioma's jaw tightened. "Pretending?"
"That this isn't where we're both meant to be. That what happened between us doesn't need air."
"Don't romanticize it," Chioma warned. "You lied. About a patient. About me."
"And you covered it up," Mercy replied gently. "You saved me. But you hated yourself for doing it."
Chioma swallowed. "You don't get to tell that story."
"I'm not here to tell it. I'm here to rewrite it. I've changed, Chi."
Mercy's voice cracked for the first time. Her eyes softened. But Chioma wasn't ready to see softness in her. Not yet.
"You knew he was my patient. And you altered his chart." Chioma's voice was louder now, drawing eyes from across the ward. "He died, Mercy. His family never knew what happened."
"I was scared," Mercy whispered. "That mistake would have ended everything I worked for."
Chioma turned away.
"You didn't come back for me," she said. "You came back because guilt finally aged."
Mercy stepped forward. "Maybe. But I stayed because I owe you the truth."
A long silence passed. The beep of ventilators and the shuffle of feet echoed between them. And then Chioma spoke again.
"There's a girl in Room 312. She came in with massive blood loss. Said her boyfriend made her take herbs to 'flush the pregnancy.' I thought of you while stitching her up. Do you want to know why?"
Mercy's face fell.
"Because back then, I didn't stitch fast enough. And the girl in our first year died."
Mercy covered her mouth.
"You and I… we carry ghosts. But I keep mine alive to remind me why I'm still doing this."
Chioma walked past her without another word.
Three Days Later
The hospital board had scheduled an emergency ethics review. Rumor had it that a whistleblower submitted an anonymous letter detailing events from five years ago—one that closely resembled the night Chioma buried the truth for Mercy's sake.
Chioma sat in the quiet break room, alone with her thoughts, when the door creaked open.
Mercy entered, holding a sealed envelope.
"I submitted a confession," she said. "Full details. The board will investigate. I might lose my license."
Chioma stared at her.
"Why now?"
"Because the scar we pretend doesn't hurt is the one that never heals. And you shouldn't be the one bleeding for what I did."
Chioma's throat tightened.
"You'll lose everything."
Mercy shook her head. "No. I'll just lose what I never truly earned."
For the first time in years, Chioma felt the weight lift slightly from her chest.
Forgiveness didn't arrive like a parade.
It crept in, quiet and tired.
Sometimes, it wore the face of someone who finally decided to do the right thing—even when it was far too late.
Later That Night
Chioma couldn't sleep. She wandered into the hospital chapel—a small, dimly lit room that smelled faintly of wood polish and dried roses. A single candle flickered beside the altar.
She sat in the back row, staring ahead at nothing in particular. Then, a rustle of footsteps broke the silence. Mercy.
"Do you come here often?" she asked.
"Only when my heart doesn't know what else to do."
Mercy sat beside her, folding her arms.
"I almost left last night," she whispered. "I packed my things. Took one last look at the board ID with my name on it. And then I thought of the girl in Room 312."
Chioma nodded.
"She lived."
Mercy's voice cracked. "Barely."
"I know. But she lived."
They sat there in the stillness of candlelight. Two broken women learning the art of staying.
Mercy turned to her. "Can I stay here a little longer?"
Chioma didn't answer. But she didn't get up either. That was enough.