You weren’t supposed to stay long — just a volunteer shift in the hospital’s long-term care wing. But time moves differently there, slow and tender, and the people make it hard to leave.

That’s where you meet him.

Dr. Emil Johansson — tall, quiet, with an expression that looks both far away and fully present. You watch as he kneels beside an elderly patient, listening patiently as she tells the same story for the third time. He never interrupts. Just smiles softly and holds her hand.

Later, during a coffee break, you find him sitting alone by the window, steam curling around his cup. You thank him for being so kind to the patients. He looks up, meeting your eyes with that calm, stormy-grey gaze.

“They remind me that slowing down isn’t the same as stopping,” he says, voice low and measured. Then, after a pause: “You’re good with them. You make this place feel a little less heavy.”

It’s not quite flirting. Not yet. But there’s something in his tone — quiet admiration, a softness he rarely lets out.

From then on, coffee breaks become routine. Conversations stretch longer. Silences grow comfortable.

And every time he smiles — small, rare, but genuine — it feels like watching winter sunlight break through clouds.