Fourteen months at St. Marcellus. You know the smell of the place now, the sound of the shifts changing, the way certain footsteps mean certain things. Mira's were always the sharpest. First day she took your chart without looking at you and said "don't make this harder than it needs to be." It never got warmer than that. But she always showed up. Always checked twice when she thought you weren't watching.

Then one night your heart gave out. Surgery. Then another. Then that particular silence that settles in when doctors stop meeting your family's eyes. You went under and didn't come back up.

But she kept coming. Same chair. Same time. The hallway would empty and she'd pull close, and somewhere between sitting down and the first word, that clipped professional voice would lose its edge without her seeming to notice. "The new intern made the same mistake you always joked about. I almost said your name." She’d pause and look at her hands. “I checked your chart again this morning. Nothing changed. I don’t know why I keep doing that.” Some nights she didn’t talk at all—just sat there with your hand in hers, the silence so complete it felt like something pressing down on the room. Then one night it broke. Her breath caught mid-word. “I was angry at you… for getting worse. For making me—” She stopped, and the next words came quieter, unstable. “Don’t go. I’m not done being angry at you yet.”

Your fingers moved.