Hospitals attract two types of visitors: the expected, and the ones who walk in like they've got unfinished business with the walls.
Today was the latter.
He walked through the front doors at 10:06 a.m., wearing a wide-brimmed felt hat, sunglasses indoors, and a trench coat that was entirely too dramatic for the weather.
He looked like someone trying not to be recognized—and failing.
Security raised an eyebrow, but he flashed a visitor badge from 2013.
Expired.
But legit.
He didn't ask for a room number.
Didn't check in at reception.
He just looked up at the ceiling, whispered, "You better still be here," and started walking.
I didn't meet him right away.
I was restocking gauze and trying not to eavesdrop on two residents fighting over who miscounted a patient's stitches.
Then my radio buzzed:
"Can someone from floor support meet a visitor in the east corridor? He's looking for… uh, 'the man with the mop.'"
I blinked.
The man with the mop?
I knew who they meant.
But I had no idea what was about to unfold.
I found him standing in front of a vending machine, staring at a bag of SunChips like it owed him money.
He turned to me, pulled down his sunglasses, and said, "You work with Everett?"
I nodded cautiously. "Sometimes."
He nodded back like we were trading state secrets.
"Good. He owes me."
"…Owes you?"
"Forty-three dollars and a second chance."
I didn't know if that was a joke or a prophecy.
"Can I tell him who's looking for him?"
He smirked.
"Tell him Jude stopped running."
When I finally found Everett, he was in the boiler room, rearranging towels by shade and density.
"Visitor for you," I said. "Said his name is Jude."
Everett stopped moving.
Just… stopped.
The boiler hissed.
The towels waited.
And something behind his eyes flickered—like an old reel spinning back to life.
"Did he say anything else?" Everett asked.
"He said you owe him forty-three dollars and a second chance."
Everett chuckled once.
Low.
Like a laugh dug out of old soil.
"Well. Damn."
When they finally met in the staff lounge, it was like watching two retired magicians meet in secret—only one never stopped performing.
Jude dropped into a chair like it offended him.
"You look older," he said.
"You look overdressed," Everett replied.
Jude gestured to his coat. "Theatrical entrance. It's about the vibe."
"You always did love entrances more than exits."
"Still better than hiding in basements."
Everett didn't flinch.
Just nodded. "Fair."
I hovered at the door, unsure if I was meant to stay.
Everett caught my eye.
"You might as well hear this," he said. "You're too curious not to."
Turns out, Jude and Everett used to work together.
Not here.
Not even in healthcare.
They were part of a traveling maintenance crew in the late 2000s—hospitals, government buildings, even a few museums.
"You were the brains," Jude said, pointing his lollipop like a cigarette. "I was the… flair."
"You were the liability."
"And the marketing department!"
"You caught a mop on fire once."
"It was a symbolic demonstration."
Everett smirked. "It was a hospital."
They laughed—until Jude's face softened.
"Then you disappeared."
Everett leaned back. Quiet.
"I didn't disappear. I just… stopped running."
Jude shook his head. "You ghosted everyone."
"I wasn't built for the show anymore. I needed stillness."
Jude took off his sunglasses.
"Stillness? Or punishment?"
That hung in the air like a dropped scalpel.
Everett didn't answer.
So Jude filled the silence:
"After you left, I tried to keep it going. Started my own outfit. The 'Sanitation Sages.' Terrible name, I know. But I was trying to be you."
Everett raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Because you made it look like peace. Like doing the smallest job still meant something."
Everett looked down at his hands.
"It does. But I had to lose a lot to see that."
Jude nodded. "So… what are you now?"
Everett thought for a moment.
Then said:
"I'm the ripple after the noise. The folded towel after the trauma. The floor that doesn't speak, but holds the weight anyway."
Jude stared.
"Still dramatic."
"Still true."
They sat for a while.
Didn't speak.
Just… breathed.
Then Jude asked:
"You got forty-three bucks?"
Everett dug into his jumpsuit, pulled out a worn envelope, and slid it across the table.
Jude opened it.
Inside: forty-three dollars.
And a note.
"Forgive yourself. I did."
Jude folded it slowly.
Then said, "I didn't come for the money."
"I know."
When Jude left, he didn't say goodbye.
He just walked out.
Hat tilted.
Sunglasses back on.
Theatrical to the end.
Everett stood by the window and watched him disappear into the brightness.
Later that day, I passed Everett in the hallway.
He was sweeping, not mopping.
Slower than usual.
"You okay?" I asked.
He nodded.
"Just remembering the noise I used to make."
"What do you mean?"
He looked at the broom, then at me.
"Some of us learn to speak through clean floors and quiet rooms. But there was a time I tried to speak through volume. And I wasn't very good at it."
I didn't know what to say.
So I just walked with him for a bit.
When we passed Room 6, a patient waved at him.
"Thanks for the folded towel."
He waved back.
"That one was from Jude."