The Nightly Visitor

Chapter 2: Threads of the Past

Morning broke over the city, but within the hospital, time felt suspended, as though the rising sun had no authority in this place where life and death were constants. Clara, after a long night shift, finally found a moment to sit in the break room, cradling a cup of coffee between her hands. The warmth seeped into her skin, but it did little to ease the chill that had settled in her bones after the night's events. Mr. Whitaker's passing had been peaceful, but the incident with the young woman—Emily—had shaken her in ways she didn't fully understand.

She stared into her cup, her mind wandering back to the moment in the ICU when she had felt an inexplicable presence. It wasn't the first time. Over the years, she had often sensed something in those final moments—an invisible weight, a shift in the air. She had always dismissed it as a trick of her exhausted mind, but last night had been different. It felt as though something, or someone, had been there with her, guiding Emily's soul in a way she couldn't quite explain.

Clara's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the break room door creaking open. Dr. Singh walked in, his usual confident stride absent, replaced by a weary shuffle. His shoulders slumped as he made his way to the coffee machine, and Clara noticed the deep lines etched into his face, lines that hadn't been there when he first started at the hospital. The loss of yet another patient seemed to weigh heavily on him, and Clara felt a pang of sympathy.

"Rough night?" she asked softly as he poured himself a cup.

Dr. Singh looked up, his eyes meeting hers with a tired smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Is there any other kind?" he replied, though his attempt at humour fell flat.

Clara offered him a small, understanding smile. "Sometimes it feels like this place never changes, doesn't it? The faces may be different, but the stories... they're always the same."

He nodded, taking a seat across from her. "It's part of the job, I suppose. We do what we can, but... sometimes it just isn't enough."

Clara studied him for a moment, sensing there was something more beneath his words. She had worked with Dr. Singh for years, and while he was always professional, always dedicated, she had seen how the years of losing patients had chipped away at him. He carried each loss like a stone in his pocket, growing heavier with time.

"Dr. Singh," she began hesitantly, "have you ever... felt something? Like there's someone else in the room when a patient dies?"

He looked at her, a slight frown creasing his brow. "What do you mean?"

She hesitated, unsure how to put her thoughts into words. "It's just... sometimes, when a patient is about to pass, I feel like I'm not alone. Like there's something—or someone—there with me."

He regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "I think we all feel that way, in our own way," he said finally. "Death is... it's hard to describe. It's a presence, an inevitability that we can't quite grasp, but we know it's there."

Clara nodded, though she wasn't entirely convinced. Dr. Singh's answer was logical, clinical, but what she had felt was something more, something almost tangible. She wondered if she was losing her mind, or if the stress of the job was finally getting to her.

Before she could press further, the door opened again, and a young boy, no more than eight or nine, peeked in. His face was pale, his eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and fear. Clara recognized him immediately—Tommy, the terminally ill child in Room 204. He was a regular visitor to the hospital, his battle with cancer stretching on for years.

"Tommy," Clara said, smiling warmly at him, "what are you doing up so early?"

Tommy stepped inside, his small frame seeming even more fragile in the oversized hospital gown he wore. "I couldn't sleep," he admitted, his voice soft. "And I was wondering... can I ask you something?"

Dr. Singh turned his attention to the boy, his professional demeanor slipping back into place. "Of course, Tommy. What's on your mind?"

Tommy hesitated, shifting from foot to foot. "Do you think there's someone who takes us when we... you know... die?"

Clara and Dr. Singh exchanged a glance, the boy's question mirroring Clara's own thoughts. It was a question neither of them had been prepared for, but one that hung heavily in the room.

"I mean," Tommy continued, "I've read stories about the Grim Reaper and stuff, but that seems scary. I don't think it's like that. I think it's someone... nice."

Clara's heart ached for the boy. Despite his young age, Tommy had faced more fear and uncertainty than most adults. But his innocence, his unshakeable belief in something good beyond death, was both heartbreaking and comforting.

"I think," Clara said gently, "that if there is someone who comes for us, they would be kind. Someone who understands."

Tommy seemed to consider this, his small face thoughtful. "Like an angel?"

"Maybe," Dr. Singh said, his voice softer than usual. "Or someone who's been there before. Someone who knows what it's like."

Tommy nodded, a small smile forming on his lips. "I think I'd like that. I wouldn't want to be alone."

"You won't be," Clara assured him, her voice thick with emotion. "I promise, you won't be."

The boy's smile grew, and he turned to leave, seeming a little lighter than when he had entered. As he walked out, the door closing softly behind him, Clara and Dr. Singh sat in silence, both lost in their thoughts.

Clara couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to what Tommy had said, that his innocent question had touched on something deeper, something real. And as she sat there, her coffee growing cold in her hands, she made a silent vow to find out what it was.

Dr. Singh, too, felt a stirring within him. Tommy's question had brought back memories he had long buried—of the patients he had lost, of the moments when he had wondered if there was something beyond the medical, something beyond his control. And as he left the break room to begin his rounds, he found himself looking over his shoulder, half-expecting to see a shadow that didn't belong, a presence that shouldn't be there.

The day wore on, the hospital returning to its usual rhythm of life and death, but for Clara and Dr. Singh, the night's events had left a mark. Unseen threads had begun to weave their way through their lives, pulling them toward something they couldn't yet understand. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, the shadows lengthening, a new night began—one that would bring them closer to the truth that had eluded them for so long.