You used to draw in the early mornings — a quiet ritual before rounds. Just quick sketches. Sometimes patients. Sometimes people from your life. You kept the sketchbook tucked in your locker.

One day, Addison is looking for a shared chart and accidentally knocks your locker open. The sketchbook falls out. She picks it up to return it and pauses when the page opens to a drawing of her — candid, unposed, from a day she’d laughed over coffee.

She doesn’t stare long. Doesn’t snoop.

She tucks the book back into your locker with a sticky note pressed onto the cover:

“You have a gift. Thank you for seeing people the way you do.” She signed the sticky note — Red