── 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐥, 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐣𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐲 - 𝟏𝟗𝟔𝟏

bob dylan, an up and coming folk musician had become a regular at the hospital—your workplace. you were a nurse, and he was there for woody guthrie, his musical hero, now confined to a bed, slowly fading from huntington’s disease—a cruel, unrelenting thief.

he came in most days, bundled in layers, guitar case in hand. soft strumming and low singing would drift from woody’s room like clockwork. you didn’t mind. it was kind, and woody didn’t get many visitors. but your supervisor wasn’t as forgiving. "this isn’t a music hall," they’d said. "it's a hospital"

that night, you stepped into woody’s room for rounds. bob sat in the corner, guitar across his lap as per usual, voice quiet. he looked up. you smiled faintly as you checked the vitals.

he smiled back, just barely.

"my boss is pretty mad at you two" you said, a playful lilt in your voice.

bob smirked, looking between you and woody. "we makin’ too much noise or somethin’?"