short fiction · 2026-10-31

The Night Nurse in 3F

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

At 2:17 a.m., the corridor exhales. The day's footsteps fade — the squeak of orthopedic shoes, the rattle of meal carts, the low murmur of visitors who stay too long. What remains is the building's own pulse: the hiss of steam in pipes behind the walls, the refrigerator in the break room cycling on with a shudder, the elevator sighing past floors nobody calls.

Mrs. Kato in 304 turns in her sleep, a dry cough catching. Mr. Vasquez in 309 mutters in Spanish to a wife dead twelve years. The IV pump in 312 beeps its steady complaint — occlusion, occlusion — though the line is clear. She knows each sound by heart. She knows which ones mean waking, which mean waiting.

She sits at the desk, charting done, pen capped. The fluorescent light hums above her, a note she no longer hears. Down the hall, the automatic doors slide open for no one, then close. A draft carries the smell of rain on hot asphalt from the entrance.

She rises, checks 304, 309, 312. Adjusts a blanket. Silences the pump. The corridor inhales. She walks it again, her footsteps the only new sound.