Hospitals are loud during the day.
Monitors beeping. Intercoms buzzing. Nurses walking fast with plastic carts and heavier thoughts.
But at night?
At night, the hospital breathes differently.
The machines whisper.
The walls creak like old bones.
And the floors—clean, still, glimmering—reflect more than just ceiling tiles.
Trevor's first solo shift started at 9:00 p.m.
He clocked in with a cocky grin and earbuds half-tucked into his hoodie. He had a list. A fresh cart. A playlist titled "Mop Vibes."
But Everett wasn't there.
No pep talk. No mop-staff proverb. No towel-folding demonstration.
Just a sticky note on the supply closet door:
"Tonight's yours.
The floor will teach you.
Listen well.
— E"
Trevor rolled his eyes.
"Dude leaves riddles like he's Batman."
But still…
he took the note.
Folded it into his back pocket.
At 10:23 p.m., he started the East Wing hallway.
Five patient rooms.
One post-op suite.
Empty, mostly.
He mopped in silence.
Concentrated.
At first, he tried the wide, dramatic strokes Everett always warned against—but the mop slapped too loudly in the stillness.
So he slowed down.
Smaller strokes.
Cleaner lines.
He remembered Everett's words: "Mop like you're ironing a conversation."
Trevor didn't know what that meant.
But it started to feel right.
At 11:47 p.m., he reached the end of the hallway.
Turned to admire the long, clean reflection behind him.
Then he noticed the footprints.
Not his.
Not recent.
Just… wet.
Fresh.
Pressed clearly into the waxed floor—like someone had walked through it, barefoot, seconds before.
He spun around.
No one.
His radio crackled.
"Trevor, report to Room 117. There's a fluid spill."
Static.
He grabbed his mop, suddenly aware of how alone he was.
But also… not.
Room 117 had been closed for months.
Renovation. Flood damage.
No patients.
No reason to be open.
He pushed the door slowly.
It creaked like a confession.
Inside: dark.
One dim light in the corner.
A slow, deliberate dripping sound from somewhere just beyond view.
He stepped inside.
Water on the floor.
A thin trail.
But no leak.
No source.
Just a path.
A single folded towel lay at the edge.
Perfectly square.
Still warm.
Trevor crouched, hand hovering over it, unsure.
Then the light flickered—and he heard it.
A soft, dragging squeak.
Not loud.
Not threatening.
Just… patient.
The sound of a mop bucket in motion.
He turned, but the hallway was empty.
Back in the closet, he found the old waxing machine Everett had told him never to use alone.
"Not because it's dangerous," he once said,
"but because it tells the truth."
Trevor didn't understand it then.
He did now.
The floor was calling for it.
He loaded it.
Checked the pads.
Rolled it out into the west corridor—the one with all the recent complaints about uneven coating.
The hallway buzzed like it was holding a memory.
Trevor started at the far end.
The machine hummed to life.
Low. Steady.
Almost like a purr.
It glided over the floor like a blessing.
Halfway down, he stopped.
Looked back.
The wax behind him was glass-smooth.
Clearer than he'd ever seen.
But ahead?
The floor shimmered like heat rising off pavement.
A figure stood at the far end.
Blurry.
Unmoving.
Like it was part of the light itself.
Trevor swallowed hard.
"Everett?"
No response.
Just the silence.
He blinked.
Gone.
1:21 a.m.
The lights dimmed momentarily, as they always do during the generator reset.
Trevor was in the ICU corridor, wiping baseboards.
He felt the pressure before he saw it—like the air thickened.
Then, behind him, a voice.
"Floor's looking good, Rookie."
He turned.
Nothing there.
But a fresh folded towel now sat at the foot of his cart.
Trevor exhaled slowly.
"Okay… okay. You're watching."
He didn't ask how Everett knew.
He just whispered,
"…Hope I'm doing it right."
2:47 a.m.
The last hallway.
Quietest part of the hospital.
The "Wings of Waiting," as some called it—where long-term patients stayed. Comas. End-of-life. Rooms where time ran slow.
Trevor rolled his bucket gently.
Didn't blast music.
Didn't check his phone.
He passed Room 9.
Paused.
Inside, a woman lay sleeping.
Connected to nothing.
Eyes closed.
Peaceful.
But her IV pole had tipped—cord dragging near her hand.
Trevor stepped in.
Lifted it carefully.
Tucked the tubing back onto the clip.
He didn't clean.
Didn't mop.
Just watched her breathe for a second.
Before he turned to leave, he noticed the towel on the side table.
Folded.
Not hospital-issued.
It had a stitched letter in the corner.
E.
4:03 a.m.
Shift over.
Hallways silent.
Floors pristine.
Trevor stood in the supply closet, dripping with sweat but… proud.
Not tired.
Settled.
He pulled Everett's note from his back pocket.
Re-read it.
"Tonight's yours.
The floor will teach you.
Listen well."
He smiled.
Wrote something on the back with a pen from the shelf.
Then placed it gently in the mop bucket and closed the door.
He didn't see Everett again that night.
But when the sun rose, the first nurse to walk the east hallway stopped mid-step.
Because someone had written a message on the floor—in wax, so faint it only showed when the light hit it just right.
It read:
"Integrity leaves no footprints."