People think quiet means peaceful.
It doesn't.
Quiet can be a battlefield.
It's just that the casualties don't scream.
They fold.
They tuck things away.
They smile when no one's looking, and mop the grief out of the corners while everyone else is too busy to notice.
That's the kind of quiet I know.
That's the kind I carry.
Most days, I don't mind.
I fold. I mop. I observe.
I keep this building cleaner than most people keep their conscience.
But some days…
the quiet weighs more than it should.
And tonight?
Tonight is one of those nights.
Jude and Marcus had their moment earlier. I saw it happen without being there.
Noah told me later in that roundabout way he tells things—like he's describing someone else's dream, but hoping you understand it's his.
Trevor… still walks a little lighter since the gallery.
But me?
I'm just walking.
Still.
Always.
I don't need to be needed.
Not like some people do.
But I do believe in showing up.
You'd be surprised how many messes get worse because someone didn't.
I've seen lives unravel on account of a late arrival and an unspoken apology.
So I mop.
I fold.
I refill the ice.
I restock the trauma carts before anyone realizes they were low.
It's my language.
It's my prayer.
They all think I don't talk much because I'm mysterious.
Truth is…
I'm just tired of explaining things to people who are only waiting to respond.
But this crew?
They're different.
Noah listens like he's afraid your truth will break if you rush it.
Jude laughs like it's a shield—but prays in actions.
Trevor folds towels like he's writing something to someone who never read his last letter.
And Marcus…
He's not a machine. He just doesn't trust his pulse yet.
They don't know this, but I almost left last year.
Had the bag packed.
Even wrote a note.
But I stayed.
Because this isn't just a job.
It's the only place I've found where people are still learning how to see each other.
Even if they don't always get it right.
There's a reason I fold towels the way I do.
Not because I'm obsessive.
Not because it's protocol.
Because someone once folded a towel for me when I was at my lowest.
Didn't say a word.
Didn't ask questions.
Just placed it beside me while I sat on a hospital floor with blood on my hands that wasn't mine—but felt like it was.
That towel?
It told me I wasn't alone.
And I've been folding that message ever since.
Sometimes I hear the guys talking in the lounge.
About Kip.
About the nurse who dismissed Trevor.
About loneliness. About grief.
I don't always walk in.
Not because I don't care.
But because they're figuring it out on their own.
And that's more powerful than any advice I could offer.
But tonight… I stayed late.
Later than usual.
The floor was clean.
The carts were stocked.
But I wasn't done.
Not inside.
I walked past the linen closet one more time.
Opened it.
Smelled the starch and the quiet.
And I folded one more towel.
Not because it was needed.
But because someone might need it.
Maybe not now.
Maybe not even this week.
But I've learned that most healing doesn't come in the moment of impact.
It comes when someone realizes the room was ready for them long before they got there.
I don't know if I'll be here forever.
I don't even know if I'll be here tomorrow.
But if I go…
They'll know where I stood.
And if they don't?
The floors will.
The towels will.
The silence will.
Because the thing about quiet?
It's not weakness.
It's not absence.
It's presence that's stopped asking to be understood.
And that's me.
Everett Vale.
Mopper of floors.
Folder of burdens.
Doctor of nothing and everything.
Still here.
Still folding.