That evening, rain started just as my shift ended.
It came down in fine silver lines against the hospital windows, turning the parking lot lights blurry and soft. I sat in my office with the door closed, still wearing my lab coat, the filing summary spread across my desk.
I had treated four patients after Connor left.
A toddler with asthma.
A six-year-old with a stubborn fever.
A teenager recovering from appendicitis who wanted to know if his scar would look “cool.”
A newborn whose mother cried from exhaustion and relief when I told her the test results were normal.
I had spoken gently. Listened carefully. Washed my hands between rooms. Smiled when needed.
No one knew that beneath my calm voice, one sentence kept repeating.
He laughs like you.
