The door closed with a soft, definitive click, sealing the outside world away. Linda Carter stood in the entryway, backlit by the muted porch light, a silhouette of weary grace. Her nurse's uniform, a crisp white and blue, seemed to hold the echoes of a long, demanding shift—the scent of antiseptic, the ghost of hushed hospital corridors, and the profound fatigue that comes from holding lives in your hands.
She started slightly when she saw me standing there, waiting in the dim warmth of the living room. Her eyes, usually so calm and sure, held a flicker of surprise, followed swiftly by a mother's concern.
"Peter?" she said, her voice a gentle rasp. "What are you doing up? You should be resting. Your body is still recovering." The words were a scolding, but the underlying tone was a melody of pure, unadulterated relief. She was glad I was awake. Glad I was here.
