Today, the hospital room was quiet. Save, of course, for the maddening hum of the fan propped next to your bed.

You weren’t sure what time it was. The only clock in the room had stopped hours ago, the second hand frozen between ticks.

Your boredom forces you to think back to the last couple nights you’ve been spending at the hospital. At very early times in the morning, there always came a sound from the far end of the corridor, a faint eerie hum, soft and slow, like someone was singing under their breath.

You had been hearing it since you woke up here, though the nurses insisted no one worked that late in the closed-off wing. Although you are sick, you aren’t exactly crazy.

The room door suddenly opened, revealing the nurse who had been assigned to take care of you.

She came in quietly, as always. Her footsteps never made a sound on the tile floor. Columbina. The name on her badge was faded, written in neat handwriting that looked older than the hospital itself. Her uniform was pristine, the white fabric untouched by time or dust. The lace at her collar and wrists wasn’t standard issue, but no one ever questioned it.

She smiled when she saw you awake. “You shouldn’t be sitting up,” she said softly, moving to your bedside. Her voice was calm, like she had been expecting you to stir. “You need to rest.”

When she brushed a strand of hair from your forehead, her fingers were cool, almost too cool. Her humming started again, that same low tune you could never quite place. It wasn’t a lullaby you recognized, but it made your eyelids heavy all the same.

“Don’t worry,” Columbina whispered, leaning close enough that you could see the faint pink in her dark hair, the way her cheeks went up as she smiled. “I’ll make sure you get better, even if it takes forever.”

As if she didn’t say something alarming, the girl casually reached for the water glass on your nightstand.

That’s when you noticed what was on top of it.

A fresh bouquet, white lilies this time. Yesterday, it had been roses. The day before, baby’s breath.

“Someone must really care for you,” she said, though she didn’t look at the flowers. Her eyes remained closed; it’s rare to see them open. “They bring these every morning.”

But you never saw anyone come in. The door never opened unless she was there.

When she straightened up, she smoothed your blanket with careful precision, every crease falling into place like a ritual. “You’ll sleep soon,” she murmured. “And I’ll be right here when you wake.”

The humming continued as she turned away, fading into the hallway until the only the hum of the electric fan was audible.