Jacqueline was dusting the mantelpiece when her phone buzzed against the kitchen counter. The number on the screen was the hospital. Her hands paused. Her breathing slowed.
She answered. Her body stayed still, but the world around her spun.
"…We're sorry, Miss Jacqueline… There were complications…"
Her throat tightened, but she thanked them. Quietly. Carefully. Not a word wasted. She hung up and returned to dusting—though her arms now moved automatically, without thought. Her eyes didn't blink for nearly a minute. Then, quietly, her tears began.
She probably didn't have anymore left in her body to feel the texture of liquid created from the source from her eyes, each drop taking a leap of faith.
Her employer—a retired teacher named Mrs. Levin—watched her from the hallway and Jacqueline kept cleaning, the most she could remember now was her cleaning and she let her mind wander around as she dusted off the cabinets.
"You can take the day off," Mrs. Levin said softly.
It came off like a whistling whisper, something one would not hear given the distance between her mind and her world, however after a few seconds of cleaning she looked up and wiped off the reduced of pain across her cheeks and she was about to return when Mrs Levin repeated her statement and for a moment Jacqueline was almost out of breath as her nodding head stilled before she nodded once again without answering. The duster dropped to the floor. She walked to the back room and picked up her coat.
On the train to the morgue, the screeching wheels against the rails sounded much louder and pierced compared to yesterday as even the shuttling doors had a piercing ring to the ears.
At the morgue, paperwork was processed. She signed her name shakily. They led her into a small viewing room where Jeffrey's body lay beneath a soft blue sheet.
When they peeled it back, she let out a single breath. Not loud. Not sharp. But long and broken.
"My baby," she whispered. "You tried so hard."
She touched his fingers. Cold. Not stiff. Still fragile. She saw now what she had only guessed before: the pale skin, the bruises that never quite healed, the faint yellow of the whites of his eyes. The tubes, the drips, the weight loss. She had always known, but she hadn't wanted to know.
He was her only child. Her only family. Her reason.
She stayed there for some time.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I should've done more. I should've..."
But she didn't cry anymore. Not in that room. Her tears had ended before the train ride began.
That night, for the first time, the checkerboard came out after sundown. Theophilus sat stiffly, adjusting to ease the strain on his damaged leg. Ramus lit the lamp.
The pieces clicked dully on the old board. Move after move. Ramus's next moves were as efficient as his silence, except Theophilus's ramming posture and weight in this battlefield had already weighed heavily on his recent move breakthroughs.
And for a moment this game of checkers felt like a game of prepared chess, the silent octave made it even easier to cross the board with just a few mindful thoughts.
Outside, the streetlight flickered. Somewhere in the building, someone coughed. A door creaked. Life continued. But here, in this dim pocket of shared reflection, two men moved wooden pieces like ghosts on a slow march.
After an hour, Ramus let out a sigh. "Draw?"
Theophilus nodded.
They put the board away.
As they settled into their beds, the only sound was the wind pressing faintly against the window.
The night passed.
Tomorrow would come.
---
At the morgue, after Jacqueline had gone, the door creaked open again.
Dr. Haroun stood there, coat open, stethoscope long forgotten around his neck like a relic. He hadn't come to say goodbye. He'd done enough of that today.
He simply stood and looked.
Jeffrey's chart still sat on the counter. He picked it up—not to review it, but to pretend there was something he'd missed. Something they all had. He flipped pages with a tired thumb. Labs, scans, notes in rushed handwriting. He knew them all. Every line.
He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.
A nurse passed by the door. "You alright, Doctor?"
"Yeah," he said. "Just… double-checking protocol."
But the nurse didn't press as there was no time for pressing, not in this place. Not with five more patients waiting in the hallway, and another night shift already short-staffed.
Dr. Haroun stared at the pale blue sheet.
There had been moments—two, maybe three—when it looked like Jeffrey might pull through. A morning when he held his own spoon. An evening where he smiled, despite the oxygen mask. But the decline was inevitable. Haroun had seen it before. Again and again.
Yet it still bruised him.
Not in the way that drew tears. Not anymore. But in the quiet erosion that came with watching young bodies fail. With having to speak to mothers whose eyes refused to cry until the ride home. With knowing his words—"We tried everything"—had begun to sound like background noise, even to himself.
He put the chart down.
Then he walked to the small sink, washed his hands again, though he hadn't touched anything. A ritual. Like prayer. Not for cleansing, but for leaving something behind.
Before leaving the room, he reached for the clipboard hanging by the door and scribbled something beneath Jacqueline's name.
"Mother present. No further questions. Patient at peace."
He signed his initials.
And then he left.
Outside, the corridor hummed with fluorescent fatigue. Machines beeped, stretchers squeaked, voices called for blankets, for drips, for help.
Just another day.
Just another name.
But behind him, beneath a soft blue sheet, someone's world had ended.
And Dr. Haroun walked back into the current, knowing tomorrow would come.
But Jeffrey would not.
---
Jacqueline stood in the hallway of her building for a long while before unlocking the door. Her hand rested on the key like it wasn't sure which way to turn.
When it clicked open, the sound echoed too loudly. The flat was dark. Still. Airless. She stepped inside, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it.
The silence greeted her first.
She didn't turn on the light.
Her coat slid from her shoulders and fell somewhere near the edge of the couch. Her shoes remained at the door, toes still pointed out like they were waiting for the next journey.
She moved slowly, not tired, not dazed—but heavy. Like walking through something invisible and thick.
The kettle sat untouched on the stove. Jeffrey's blanket—thin and pilled—still hung over the arm of the couch. She reached for it and folded it, gently, the way she had every morning when he wasn't well enough to do it himself.
Then she stood in the middle of the room. Waiting for what, she didn't know.
Eventually, her body found the chair by the window. She sat. Hands in her lap. Back straight. Staring.
Outside, the city moved without pause. Taxis coughed along the main road. Distant voices argued. Somewhere, faint music from a shop radio bled through the brick.
She didn't cry.
She hadn't, really—not since that moment in the viewing room. Not since she whispered her apology to a still and fragile hand.
Grief wasn't loud and she didn't need to create a fuss about it even though deep down a lingering stab wound failed her emotions.
It was this: the small instinct to set out two plates for dinner before remembering she wouldn't need to. The way her arm reached automatically for a second blanket as the air grew cold, the switch in the next room had dimmed by now and as she seemed like she was about to tell him to switch off the lights before he went to sleep, she stopped fot a moment to think about before tossing the thought away.
Hours passed.
She didn't eat. She didn't sleep. She didn't pray.
She just sat.
At some point, the night turned into something blacker than night. And then, slowly, it turned again—into the grey before dawn.
Her body ached probably from the battered labour work she had to do as a cleaner at the Levin's family, she would've loved to believe it was that but unfortunately she knew it better than anyone could tell that she remembered that she no longer had a Jeffery.
When the first faint light crept across the window sill, Jacqueline finally stood. She walked to the sink. Filled the kettle. Lit the stove.
Tea would come. Then the clock. Then the bus.
Because even grief had a schedule.
And the world didn't stop for anyone.
---
Mrs. Levin was in the garden when Jacqueline arrived.
It was early—earlier than usual. The gate clicked shut behind her, and she stood by it for a moment, gloved hands resting on the latch. Her eyes didn't lift to the house. She waited, as if entering required permission from something larger than courtesy.
Mrs. Levin looked up from her rose bed. She didn't speak at first, just held Jacqueline's gaze across the dew-damp grass. Then, softly, "The key still works."
Jacqueline nodded.
She entered through the back door. Quietly. Without sound.
Inside, nothing had changed. The smell of wood polish still hung faintly in the air. The carpet lay pressed by the same small trail her feet had made for months. The coat rack, the umbrella stand, the half-read book on the side table—it was all as she had left it.
And so she did what she always did.
Hung her coat. Tied her apron. Opened the linen closet and gathered the dusting cloths. No announcement. No updates. The silence between her and Mrs. Levin was not uncomfortable—it had simply agreed to exist for a while.
She began with the sitting room.
There was more dust than usual, but not by much. It hadn't been long. Still, she moved slowly, deliberately, as if her hands were searching for something in the motion—some feeling, some anchor.
Mrs. Levin came in mid-morning with a cup of tea.
"Jacqueline."
She didn't look up. "Ma'am."
The older woman set the cup on the windowsill. "You don't have to work today."
"I do."
A pause. Then, more gently, "Not for me."
Jacqueline stopped dusting.
"I don't know what else to do," she said quietly, turning to face her employer, though not quite meeting her eyes.
Mrs. Levin nodded. "Alright then."
She didn't press. She returned to the garden.
Jacqueline resumed her work.
The hours passed like they always did. Windowpanes, picture frames, bathroom tiles. Each task precise, finished before the next began. Her body knew the rhythm and she already had supreme muscle memory for the routine that made her life.
In the laundry room, she paused at the washing machine. The sound reminded her of home. Of sheets soaked in antiseptic, of towels she used to press against Jeffrey's fevered skin. Of his cough echoing from the thin walls. Of waiting—for answers, for medicines, for miracles.
Her eyes closed, just for a second.
Then she opened them, loaded the detergent, and let the spin cycle begin.
By afternoon, the house gleamed again.
Jacqueline wiped her hands on her apron, folded it, and left it on the kitchen chair and didn't stay for tea. She only paused at the threshold long enough to hear Mrs. Levin say, "You did well."
And then she left.
The gate clicked again behind her.
And the street welcomed her back, like it always had—indifferently, endlessly, and without pause.