A short story –
The hospital garden was the only place where time didn’t buzz.
Dr. Raya sat alone on the weathered bench beneath the jacaranda tree, her stethoscope still around her neck, half-eaten sandwich in hand. The scent of blooming lavender and antiseptic clung to her like a contradiction.
It was one of those warm, drowsy afternoons where everything shimmered.
She didn’t hear him at first.
“Do you mind if I sit?” came a gentle voice, like soft fabric brushing against stone.
She turned.
An elderly man stood beside her, leaning slightly on a cane. He wore a faded hospital gown and a knitted gray cap that made him look like someone’s favorite grandfather. His eyes were cloudy, but kind, like smoke over warm coals.
Raya hesitated, then smiled politely.
“Of course.”
He sat slowly, with a sound like creaking paper, and let out a long sigh.
“Feels like spring, doesn’t it?”
She looked at him, then at the thick clouds gathering beyond the horizon.
“Almost.”
He chuckled.
“I always liked spring for its dishonesty. It comes in warm and promising, then sneaks in a storm. Much like people, don’t you think?”
…
They ate in silence at first.
Raya bit into her sandwich; the bread was stale. The tomatoes were too wet. She barely tasted it.
“You’re Dr. Raya, aren’t you?” he asked, chewing thoughtfully on something from his tray.
She glanced at him, surprised.
“Yes. How do you know?”
“You checked in on me yesterday. Briefly. You touched my wrist and asked if I was in pain.”
He smiled.
“You didn’t look at me, though.”
Her cheeks flushed. “I’m… sorry. It’s been a full week.”
“Oh, I know,” he nodded. “The kind of full that empties you.”
Raya blinked. The breeze rustled the leaves above them, scattering little petals over the table like quiet confetti.
“Do you like being a doctor?” he asked.
She hesitated. Then lied.
“Yes.”
Mr. Halim turned to her. His eyes held something ancient.
“I spent most of my life collecting things — cars, watches, houses, lovers. Thought I was building a life. But really, I was building a vault. Cold, quiet, locked tight.”
Raya didn’t speak. Something about his voice wrapped around her ribs.
“You know what I remember now?” he said, squinting toward the sky. “The moments when someone stayed. Really stayed. Not the birthdays or the gifts. Just… being seen.”
Raya nodded slowly. “Sometimes I feel like I’m floating through rooms instead of walking into them. People blur. Faces blend.”
“Then stop,” he said gently. “Slow down. Look longer. Feel more.”
…
They talked about silly things after that — his love of mangoes, her fear of birds, the time he tried to cook curry and set his kitchen on fire. She laughed. A real laugh. It startled her.
As the hour waned, Mr. Halim stood with effort. He winced, but waved off her concern.
“Thank you for the company, Doctor. I’d almost forgotten how to enjoy lunch.”
“You’re welcome,” she said.
He paused, then added.
“If you have a moment later, stop by my room. I’d like to show you something.”
She gave him a polite nod.
“Maybe. If I’m free.”
“We’re never free,” he said softly. “We just choose how we spend our prison time.”
And with that, he walked away slowly, disappearing down the path between the trees.
…
Back in the lounge, Raya set her tray down and sighed.
A colleague looked up.
“Good break?”
She nodded.
“Had lunch with a patient in the garden. Mr. Halim, from 6B.”
The colleague raised an eyebrow.
“You sure about that?”
Raya frowned.
“Yeah. Why?”
“I passed by the garden on my way from the lab. You were out there alone. Talking. Gesturing. But no one was sitting next to you.”
Raya laughed.
“Funny.”
But her hands began to sweat.
She replayed the conversation — the laughter, the way the petals danced between them… but was there ever a second plate on the table?
She stood suddenly.
Her feet slapped the corridor tiles like thunder. The hallway stretched too long. Her breath caught in her throat.
Room 6B was at the end.
She burst through the door.
The heart monitor was dark. Not flatlining — off.
A nurse outside hadn’t heard a thing. The machine had silently failed. Mr. Halim lay still, skin pale, lips tinged blue.
“Code blue! Get a crash cart — NOW!”
Time blurred. Gloves. Chest compressions. Rhythm checks. The electric pulse of hope.
They brought him back. Barely.
…
Later, when he stabilized, she returned to the room.
He was awake now, barely conscious. Tubes in his arm. Oxygen under his nose.
He turned his head slowly.
“You came,” he whispered, eyes soft.
She nodded, swallowing tears.
“I thought I lost you.”
He smiled, then gestured weakly to his tray.
There, under a napkin, was a small folded note. Her name is on it. Written in shaky, thin pen strokes.
“We leave pieces of ourselves behind in people. You gave me the gift of being seen one last time. I just wanted you to feel it, too.”
Raya clutched the note to her chest, listening to the faint rhythm of the monitor.
That lunch had changed her.
And perhaps, in the folds of time, she had changed something for him, too.
…
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