Dr. Malik stepped back into the corridor without speaking. The walls hummed faintly with the same constant ventilation, the same dull light that never adjusted to the hour. He walked slowly, not because he was tired, though he was, but because the corridor was once again crowded with the same feelings and that wretched hollowness, a step forward would've sent him spiraling... at least to his judgement.
No emergency page had come. There were no calls pending, no collapses in the hallway or breathless relatives at the front desk. For the moment, the hospital was stable, or stable enough.
He passed by the long glass windows that overlooked the parking garage—rain had come and gone during his time in the room. The pavement outside was still wet, cars dull in the grey. A few pedestrians moved under umbrellas, nurses leaving, maybe, or maintenance staff on a break.
He adjusted his coat slightly and continued past the pharmacy annex. There was a smell of iodine and mild detergent in the air. Further ahead, near Ward G, the machines grew louder—the low whirr of dialysis, the quiet rhythmic huff of assisted breathing in ICU-adjacent rooms. No alarms, just life extended by schedule.
A young nurse nodded to him briefly in passing to which he replied with a similar respectful gesture.
He turned left near the recovery observation rooms and paused at the corner where a vending machine stood tucked into a recess. The light inside it buzzed faintly. His colleague, Dr. Segun, was already there, watching a water bottle drop behind the plastic window.
"You still drink that stuff?" Dr. Malik asked.
Segun bent to pick up the bottle. "Not really. Just didn't feel like coffee."
They stood beside each other in a narrow calm that wasn't private but wasn't public either. Malik leaned against the opposite wall, arms folded loosely.
Segun cracked open the bottle. "You look like someone walked out of your chest."
Malik gave a short breath. "That's funny."
"Was it bad?"
"No. Just... a bit refreshing after a long day of continuous legal pain."
The pauses were familiar. The job didn't often offer closure, but sometimes it gave silence, and they had learned not to interrupt it too quickly.
Segun looked toward the hallway that led to the elevator. "You know this place wears through people like sandpaper. I can't tell if we're smoother or just thinner."
Malik didn't respond right away. He looked down the hallway behind him where a cleaner was pushing a cart slowly past the wall lined with oxygen tanks. The silence remained unbroken a while longer.
Then Malik asked, "You still see the guy in 38-C? The former ironworker."
Segun nodded. "He's still in. Keeps asking if he'll walk without the brace. He won't. But I haven't told him yet."
They both knew why.
After another brief silence, Malik said, "I'm going to see Ms. Kanzi now. Room 42-B."
Segun glanced over. "She's sharp. Makes you feel like you're being read through."
"She requested to speak again."
"Then don't keep her waiting."
They parted without shaking hands.
Malik walked the rest of the way through the east wing where some of the lights flickered slightly, likely in need of maintenance. An orderly pushed a laundry bin past him with practiced speed. Outside one of the pediatric rooms, a paper crane hung from a strip of tape on the door. He didn't look too closely. It wasn't his patient.
When he arrived outside 42-B, he checked the board. The door was slightly ajar. The soft sound of a small TV filtered through, but it was on mute. He knocked gently before entering.
She was sitting up this time. Not by much, just enough that her back formed an angle with the pillows stacked behind her. She turned her head slowly, eyes sharp and alert.
"Dr. Malik," she said. "You are right on time as I had just gotten a bit of energy to pull through in a conversation."
He stepped in, closed the door quietly behind him. "I wonder if I should be grateful or sincere, after all your topics are a huge strain on my frail mind."
"Stop nagging, if I were your grandmother I would've knocked some sense in your head with my crutches."
"Still lively as ever, you weren't even this energetic when I departed with Dr. Setumo."
She nodded once and motioned slightly toward the chair. He sat down, coat unbuttoned, stethoscope loose in his pocket.
"I remember that one," she said. "He used to treat me once before you attended me, and now he's probably jealous of not being as close to me as you are so he brought you away to one of his errands. Did he say anything about me?"
"No," he said honestly.
"Good."
She was quiet for a moment. The air in the room was dry, the smell mostly antiseptic with a trace of something older—books perhaps, or starch. A half-finished crossword puzzle lay face-down on her tray.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
She lifted her eyebrows as if amused. "Do you ask everyone that?"
"I'm supposed to."
"But you didn't ask with your voice. You asked with your face. That's worse. That means you know the answer."
Malik didn't smile. "Pain level?"
She moved her hand slightly in the air, a loose gesture. "Bearable."
"I can adjust—"
"No, don't. It's good to feel something. It reminds me I'm not waiting in a hallway."
A brief silence stretched between them.
"I don't believe in too many things," she said. "But I do believe the body eventually becomes tired of its own coordination."
He tilted his head slightly.
"You know," she continued, "keeping balance, digesting food, remembering names. The whole orchestra. It gets tired. Even if you're willing to keep going, the body can decide it's no longer interested."
He nodded. "That's not far from what we see."
"Still," she said, "I would like to remain a little longer."
He said nothing. It wasn't his place to affirm or deny such things.
"You have a calm way about you," she said suddenly. "Not detached. Just... not in a hurry to prove you're here."
"I try not to waste people's time."
She reached for her glass of water but didn't lift it. "Do you think there's a point to all this?"
"To staying alive?"
"To everything we do while we're here."
He considered it.
"I think we don't get to know the point," he said, "but we get to choose our behavior. And that becomes the only part we can control."
She exhaled through her nose.
"A dull answer," she said. "But probably true."
He stood to check her vitals, adjusted the IV slightly, and wrote a note on the clipboard.
Before leaving, she spoke again.
"If you come back tomorrow, I won't ask the same question."
He paused. "I'll come back."
She nodded once and looked toward the window. The television still played soundlessly in the background. He turned and left without a word.
The hallway outside was quiet again. Just another hour in a place that would never close, never sleep, never pause for long.
And Dr. Malik, now without a page, without a destination, walked the corridor back in the direction he came. Not toward rest. Just onward.
---
The rooftop door gave way with the soft resistance of institutional weight. Dr. Malik stepped into the filtered sunlight, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, white coat catching a gentle gust that smelled of concrete, freon, and something vaguely metallic—like city breath. A mechanical hum circled the space, the voice of the building doing its slow, endless work.
Someone else was there.
Near the perimeter ledge, leaning with elbows on the safety rail, stood Dr. Cindy Rupert. She wore a navy blue fleece over her scrubs, coffee cup balanced between her palms. Her hair was up in that absentminded twist that meant she'd meant to fix it properly but hadn't. She looked over and gave a nod that was more reflex than greeting, the way doctors acknowledged each other across halls and sterile rooms.
"Hey," she said.
Dr. Malik nodded. "Hey."
He walked to the opposite edge and stood, not too close, not too far. There was no tension in the distance, just a practical spacing, like they were both observing the quiet.
"Didn't think I'd see anyone else up here," Cindy said, her voice normal, quiet without being hushed.
"Same. Thought it'd be empty."
The city pulsed below them, uncaring. Nothing profound in that, just the fact of it.
"You finishing up or just hiding?" she asked, looking his way but not directly.
"Neither. Maybe something between. Two cases back to back. Needed a break."
She sipped her coffee. "Yeah. Same."
There was no music in the silence between them. No metaphor. Just two professionals, standing in their own separate thoughts, in the same place.
"Do you ever think it's strange," she began, "how we can spend entire days talking to patients, families, nurses, and still feel like we've barely said anything all day?"
He nodded once. "Talking without speaking. Listening without hearing."
"Exactly."
There was a pause.
"I saw you in the lounge earlier," she added. "Didn't say anything. You looked... occupied."
"Was I?" he asked. He wasn't being coy. He truly didn't remember.
"Maybe not. Maybe I just thought you looked like someone who needed their silence kept."
He exhaled slowly. Not a sigh. Just breath.
"You ever feel like this job asks for things that don't have names?" he asked.
"All the time. Like being fluent in a language no one else can hear."
He nodded again, and the rhythm of it felt mutual. He turned slightly to face her more directly.
"I think what bothers me isn't the work," he said. "It's the carry-over. The part that trails you home."
"Yeah. You scrub your hands until the skin cracks and still feel like you're bringing the day with you."
They stood in silence again, this time not because there was nothing to say, but because the things they were saying needed time to rest between them.
"I used to come up here when I was a resident," Cindy offered, almost as if testing the air. "Back when I thought breaks were optional. Back when this place didn't feel like an extension of me."
He didn't answer, but his presence acknowledged her.
"You still get sleep?" she asked, changing direction gently.
"Some. You?"
"Enough to function. Not enough to dream."
He half-smiled, eyes forward.
"Well," she said, finishing her coffee. "Guess that's enough philosophy for today. Got a 5 o'clock consult. Just needed to breathe different air for a minute."
"Same."
She turned to leave but paused with her hand on the rooftop door. "You headed back in?"
"Yeah. Soon. Room 5B."
"Patient with the hemolytic workup?"
He nodded. "That's the one."
"Good luck. She's a talker."
"I'll take it."
She gave a small smile, not sentimental, not distant—just a human expression.
"See you around,Dr. Malik."
"You too."
The door shut behind her. He remained a moment longer, hands in his coat pockets, then turned back toward the stairwell.
There was still more of the day to live through.