St. Edmund's Hospital smelled of carbolic and candle wax. The lamps burned low in their sconces, casting flickering shadows across the white-tiled walls. It was late—far later than most physicians still lingered—but Dr. Samantha Whitlock had never been one to leave her patients unattended.
Her hands were steady as she adjusted the linens around a feverish boy, his breath rasping shallowly in his chest. She pressed her stethoscope to his ribs and listened, brow furrowing at the crackling within his lungs. Pneumonia, she thought, tightening the blanket around his frail frame.
The nurse hovering at her elbow whispered, "Doctor, you haven't slept in two days."
Samantha gave her a faint, tired smile. "Neither has he. If he can endure, so can I."
That was always her way. She had been born with a quiet resolve, an iron steadiness masked by gentleness. Patients trusted her, colleagues respected her, and the townsfolk whispered that Dr. Whitlock had the hands of an angel. She never believed such things. She was simply a woman doing her duty.
But that night, fate had other plans.
The boy stirred, coughing blood into his handkerchief. Samantha leaned forward quickly, pressing his head to the side. "Easy, child, easy…"
The coughing fit passed, leaving him trembling but breathing. Samantha sat back, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She felt suddenly light-headed, the edges of her vision blurring.
"Doctor?" the nurse asked, alarmed.
Samantha opened her mouth to answer, but no words came. A sharp pain struck her chest, stealing her breath. She gripped the bedframe, her knuckles white, as the world tilted.
The nurse screamed for help, but by the time the orderlies rushed in, Samantha had already collapsed onto the floor.
---
There was a silence.
A silence deeper than the quiet of midnight wards, deeper than the pause between heartbeats. Samantha was aware of it in a strange, floating way, as though she were suspended in water.
Then—she opened her eyes.
The ceiling above her was the same one she had looked upon moments ago, its plaster cracked faintly with age. The lamps still flickered. The nurses still cried out. Yet the voices sounded distant, blurred, like echoes through water.
She sat up. The nurse shrieked and dropped her lamp, glass shattering across the floor.
"Doctor—" one of the orderlies stammered. "You— you weren't breathing—"
Samantha looked down at herself. Her chest rose and fell, though no breath filled her lungs. She pressed a trembling hand to her sternum. No pulse. No beat. Her skin felt cold as marble beneath her fingers.
The nurse backed away, crossing herself. "God preserve us…"
But Samantha felt no fear. Only… stillness. An uncanny calm, as though every burden had slipped from her shoulders. She rose slowly, ignoring the gasps of those around her.
"I'm all right," she said softly, though she knew it was a lie.
From that night onward, she walked not among the living, nor truly among the dead.
Her colleagues avoided her. Patients no longer saw her as they once had; their eyes slid away as though some veil clouded their sight. Within weeks she left St. Edmund's behind, taking only her doctor's bag and a single leather-bound journal.
The world stretched before her, vast and indifferent. She did not hunger, did not tire, did not age. Each day was the same as the last.
And in the quiet of her rooms at night, she would press her hand to her chest and whisper into the silence:
"Why am I still here?"
But the silence never answered.