The Nightly Visitor

Chapter 1: The Unseen Watcher

The hospital was a living, breathing entity. Its walls whispered secrets and its corridors seemed to stretch infinitely, carrying the weight of countless lives and deaths. The day was a cacophony of noise—doctors barking orders, machines beeping incessantly, families clinging to hope or crumbling under despair. But at night, when the world outside succumbed to sleep, the hospital entered a different phase, one where silence reigned, broken only by the faint hum of the building's lifeblood coursing through its veins.

It was in this stillness that I thrived. My work was easier in the quiet when distractions were few and the souls were more willing to let go. They often clung to life with the same desperate tenacity as their loved ones during the day, but at night, when the body was too weary to fight, they began to see the futility in resisting me.

Tonight, I was not alone in my vigil. Clara, the night nurse, moved through the corridors with a practiced grace, her steps nearly as silent as mine. She was dedicated, almost to a fault, to her patients. It was why she had been chosen for the night shift—she could be counted on to care for the dying with the same attention she gave to the living. She was also one of the few who sensed me, though she did not yet realize it.

Clara entered the room of Mr. Whitaker, the old man I had visited earlier. His body lay still now, covered with a thin sheet, his eyes closed as if in peaceful sleep. She checked the machines, though they were already silent, and gently touched his forehead. There was no sadness in her expression, only a deep, abiding respect.

"He was a good man," she whispered as if speaking to someone unseen. "He deserved better."

Her words hung in the air, and I felt a strange tug within me. I knew what she meant; Mr. Whitaker had led a simple life, one filled with love and quiet joys, yet also with missed opportunities and small regrets that had accumulated like dust over the years. Clara had cared for him in his final days, listening to his stories and holding his hand when the pain became too much. She had become, in a way, the daughter he had lost touch with long ago.

I moved closer, unseen but feeling as if I was always around her. Clara shivered slightly, pulling her cardigan tighter around herself, though the room was not cold. She stood by Mr. Whitaker's bedside for a few moments longer, then turned and left, her duties pulling her to the next room.

In the stillness, I remained with Mr. Whitaker a little longer, sensing the remnants of his presence. His soul had already begun its journey, descending to where his deeds would be weighed and balanced. There was a lightness to the room now, a sense of peace that often followed after a soul accepted their fate.

But not all nights were so calm.

Down the hall, a different scene was playing out. Dr. Singh, the night-shift doctor, was rushing into the ICU. A Code Blue had been called, and the air was thick with urgency. I followed him, knowing that tonight, one of these souls would be mine.

The room was a whirlwind of activity. Nurses moved swiftly, administering CPR, adjusting monitors, and injecting medications in a desperate attempt to pull the patient back from the brink. But I could already see the futility in their efforts; the thread that tied this soul to their body was fraying and thinning with each passing second.

Dr. Singh was at the center of it all, barking orders with a precision born of years of experience. He had seen death more times than he could count, but he fought it each time with the same fervour. To him, every life was worth saving, and every battle was worth fighting. But tonight, he would lose.

The patient—a middle-aged woman, her face pale and gaunt from the ravages of a sudden illness—gasped for breath, her body convulsing under the strain. Her soul hovered, torn between the pull of life and the inevitability of my presence. I reached out, ready to guide her on her journey.

But she resisted. Her soul clung to her body, fueled by the desperation that lingered in the room, by the unspoken pleas of Dr. Singh, and by the frantic efforts of the nurses. This was not unusual—many souls resisted at first, especially those who had not come to terms with their mortality.

I moved closer, allowing my presence to become more palpable, to help her see that her time had come. But as I did, I felt something I had not expected—a force, strong and insistent, pushing back against me.

It was Clara. She had entered the room quietly, her presence unnoticed in the chaos, and now stood beside the patient, her hand resting lightly on the woman's arm. She was praying softly, her words a murmur that seemed to wrap around the soul like a protective shield.

This was new. Clara had always sensed me, but this was the first time she had ever interfered. I hesitated, uncertain. The soul was still mine to take, but Clara's presence was complicating things. Her prayer was not one of defiance but of compassion, a plea for peace, for comfort, for the patient's soul to find its way gently.

I waited, watching as the soul wavered. The machines flatlined, and the room fell silent as the nurses stepped back, their shoulders slumping in resignation. Dr. Singh closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, a familiar weight settling on his chest—the weight of another life lost, another battle fought and failed.

But Clara remained, her hand still on the patient's arm, her prayer continuing. I felt the soul relax, the resistance fading as it began to accept what was happening. Slowly, gently, I reached out again, and this time, the soul came to me willingly, no longer fighting, no longer afraid.

As I guided the soul away, I glanced back at Clara. She was still praying, her eyes closed, her expression serene. She had helped this soul in a way I never could—by offering comfort and easing the fear. It was something I had not anticipated, something that made me wonder if there was more to Clara than I had realized.

For the first time in countless millennia, I felt a flicker of curiosity—a small, hesitant question forming in the depths of my being. Could Clara be more than just a nurse? Could she be someone who might one day understand, perhaps even assist, in my eternal task?

The thought lingered as I continued my work that night, moving from room to room, collecting the souls that were ready to depart. But I kept returning to Clara, to the way she had sensed me, to the way she had helped the soul find peace. There was something different about her, something that I could not yet fully grasp.

And so, as the night faded and dawn approached, I found myself watching her more closely, wondering what role she might play in the nights to come and what it might mean for the work that I had done for so long alone.

The hospital remained my domain, but now, there was a new presence within its walls, a light in the darkness that I could not ignore. And for the first time, I felt that perhaps, in this endless cycle of life and death, there was something—or someone—that could change everything.