It was just past 6:00 a.m. when I closed the door behind me.
That soft click—the kind that tells you the rest of the world is still asleep—was the best part of the day.
I set my keys on the counter and stood still for a moment.
Breathing in the silence of my apartment like it was clean oxygen.
Not hospital-grade.
The place wasn't big.
A studio.
Gray carpet, half-worn.
One window, usually fogged.
And a fishbowl near the sink that probably should've been upgraded to a tank six months ago.
The fish—Harold—floated toward me expectantly.
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered. "You survived another night without me. Congrats."
He blinked.
Or maybe just turned.
Hard to tell with goldfish.
I took off my shoes.
Peeled off the layers of my uniform like I was shedding hospital static.
On the small kitchen table:
Three unopened envelopes from billing.
One checklist of meds for a patient I had technically discharged but kept thinking about.
A paper towel scribbled with Everett's handwriting from weeks ago:
"Clean forward. Don't circle the mess."
I left it there. I always did.
I opened the fridge.
Half an orange.
Two eggs.
Sriracha.
One of Jude's energy drinks I swore I'd never steal, but he left it in my locker and I was claiming squatters' rights.
I reached for it.
That's when I saw it—tucked just inside the fridge handle: a small, wrapped package, square and careful.
And a note:
Son—
I know we don't talk like we used to.
I don't always know what to say.
But I know what you do is hard.
I see it.
Even when you don't say it.
Thought this might help.
Or at least remind you that you're not forgotten.
– Dad
I sat down.
Didn't open it yet.
Just held it.
Let the words sit with me.
They weren't fancy.
They weren't tearjerkers.
But they were real.
And they came from someone who'd spent most of my adult life talking more about football than feelings.
I finally opened the box.
Inside: a pair of high-end insoles—the kind you'd never buy for yourself but secretly dream about every time your feet go numb in compression socks.
Also inside: a folded photo of us.
From years ago.
Me in scrubs.
Him in his weekend baseball cap.
Both of us standing next to a broken-down sedan we had just push-started in the rain.
We were laughing.
I looked around the room.
Same as it always was.
But it felt… fuller.
I fed Harold.
He didn't say thank you, but I imagined he meant it.
Then I sat on the couch.
Let my back sink into it.
Unfolded the paper towel with Everett's note.
I stared at it, then flipped it over.
Another message I hadn't noticed before.
Smaller writing.
Lighter ink.
"You carry more than you show. Don't forget to let something carry you back."
My phone buzzed. A message from Jude:
U alive? If not I claim ur fish.
I replied:
Still breathing. Fish says hi.
Another message came through—Trevor.
You left your badge in the break room again. We're making a shrine.
I smiled. Set the phone down.
Closed my eyes for just a second.
Maybe the day would bring more messes.
More paperwork.
More silence pretending to be strength.
But for now…
I had insoles.
I had Harold.
I had a floor that was mine.
And somehow—somehow—that was enough.