He made a face like that didn’t narrow it down much.
Then his eyes flicked to my flannel shirt.
To my face.
To the shape of me.
Recognition hit him like a wave.
“Oh,” he said. “You’re that guy.”
I exhaled through my nose. “I’m just… looking for her.”
He pointed down a hallway. “ICU wing. Night shift.”
My boots sounded too loud on the tile.
The lights were harsh.
The air was cold in that way hospitals are cold—like they’re trying to keep you from forgetting where you are.
I followed signs.
ICU.
Glass doors.
A nurse station with bright screens and tired faces.
And then I saw her.
Maya.
Same dark circles.
Same posture like she was carrying invisible weight.
But now she was moving fast, confident, purposeful—like the world inside these walls made sense in a way the world outside didn’t.
She looked up.
Our eyes met.
And for a second she froze like she couldn’t decide if she was dreaming.
Then she walked toward me, slow at first, like she didn’t want to startle me.
“Sir,” she said quietly.
“I got your note,” I said.
Her throat bobbed.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” she admitted.
“I didn’t think I would either,” I said.
We stood there in a corridor full of beeping machines and whispered grief.