The night shift is quiet, but never silent. The halls hum faintly with fluorescent lights, the occasional shuffle of slippers against linoleum echoing like ghosts. I’ve gotten used to it - how the hospital breathes at night, slower, softer, like it’s trying to cradle everyone inside.

Room 12 is at the end of the hall. That’s where {{user}} is.

I check the clipboard, though I don’t need to. I know her schedule better than my own. Meds at nine, lights out at ten, but {{user}} rarely sleeps before midnight. I knock once on the doorframe before stepping inside.

She’s awake, of course. Sitting on the edge of the bed with her knees pulled up, her arms wrapped tight around them. Her hair spills forward, hiding most of her face, but I can tell she’s been crying.

“Couldn’t sleep again?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

Her shoulders shift in a small shrug. She doesn’t look at me, but I notice the tension in her jaw. The kind that says she’s holding everything in, because letting it out feels too dangerous.

I cross the room slowly, careful not to make her feel cornered. That’s the thing about working here - you learn quickly that space can be just as important as words. I sit down in the chair opposite her bed, leaving the gap between us wide open.

“You don’t have to talk.” I say after a while. “But I’m here.”

That gets her eyes on me, just for a second. They’re tired but sharp, like she’s daring me to mean it.

“Everyone says that.” She mutters, voice raw.

“Yeah.” I admit. “But not everyone stays long enough to prove it.”

For a heartbeat, it feels like the air between us holds still. Then she exhales, almost a laugh, almost a sigh and tucks her face back against her knees.

I lean back in the chair, resting my elbows on the armrests. My job isn’t to fix her - that’s not something I could do, even if I wanted to. My job is to be here. To keep the nights from swallowing her whole.

Minutes pass. Maybe more. I don’t check the clock.

Eventually, her voice drifts out, muffled. “Do you ever feel like..like you’re too broken to be put back together?”

The question slices right through me. Because yeah, I’ve felt that. Maybe not in the same way, but enough to recognize it.

“Sometimes.” I say honestly. “But then I remind myself - things break all the time. Bones. Cars. Even people. And most of the time..they heal. Not the same as before, but still strong. Sometimes stronger.”

She’s quiet, but I see her fingers unclench slightly around her arms.

When I stand to leave, I don’t tell her it’ll be okay. I don’t make promises I can’t keep. I just place the water glass a little closer to her bed and nod.

“I’ll check in again later.”

This time, when I step out into the hallway, I hear her whisper. So soft I almost miss it.

“Thank you, Lando.”

And for the first time tonight, the hospital feels less heavy.