You don't mop a floor without seeing what was left behind.
Sometimes it's footprints.
Sometimes it's blood.
Sometimes it's something invisible, but heavier than both.
Regret doesn't stain tile.
But I still mop like it might.
I wasn't always a janitor.
That part surprises people.
Like being good at something quiet means you've always lived that way.
Truth is…
I used to be in a lab coat too.
Not as a doctor.
But as something close.
Close enough to hold someone's life in your hands and still lose it.
Her name was Maira.
Six years old.
Eyes too big for her frame.
Lungs too small for her world.
She smiled like she didn't know her prognosis.
She probably did.
Kids always know more than we tell them.
She liked markers.
Used to draw suns with thick black outlines—like even light needed protection.
She crashed during my shift.
I was support staff. Monitoring vitals. Charting responses.
The lead nurse was in the hallway.
Doctor on the phone.
I was in the room.
The moment she coded, I froze.
Just for a second.
But that second was enough.
They came in fast after that.
Worked hard.
But she was already gone.
No one blamed me.
They said it wasn't my fault.
Protocols were followed.
Charts were clean.
I kept my job.
But I stopped being there after that.
Not physically.
Spiritually.
Something folded inward.
And never quite unfolded again.
That was my last day in pediatric care.
I transferred.
Then shifted again.
Eventually ended up here.
In this hospital.
With this crew.
And a mop in my hand that weighs less than guilt, but more than most people know.
They don't ask about my past.
I think they're scared to.
Or maybe they just respect silence more than the average floor crew.
Either way, I'm grateful.
Because if I had to tell them…
If I had to say, "Yes, I froze. Yes, I saw the life leave her before I moved,"
I don't know if I could say it without collapsing.
I don't need forgiveness.
I need purpose.
That's why I mop.
That's why I fold.
That's why I leave notes and towels and stay late on weekends.
I couldn't save her.
But maybe I can still save someone else.
Even if it's just a moment.
Even if it's just their feet not slipping on tile.
Noah knows something's there.
He never asks.
But he watches like someone who understands that grief doesn't always come with a grave.
Trevor folds like I do.
Jude jokes like I used to—before the humor cracked.
Marcus? He reminds me of who I might've become if I hadn't frozen that day.
And Kip?
Kip reminds me why people stop listening.
Because they think understanding is optional.
It isn't.
Sometimes, late at night, I imagine Maira drawing again.
Another sun.
Another thick black circle.
Only this time, the outline isn't fear.
It's a mop streak.
Clean. Straight. Strong.
Like something small trying to protect something bright.
They'll never know her name.
But she's in every folded towel.
Every waxed floor.
Every moment I stop just long enough to wonder if I've done enough.
Not to forget her.
But to make her proud.
I couldn't save her.
But I'm still trying.
Still here.
Still folding.