Nora's POV
I dropped the bedpan.
It clattered across the floor of room 312, and I wanted to die of embarrassment. The elderly patient, Mrs. Rodriguez, just smiled kindly at me like I hadn't just made a complete mess of the simplest task in nursing.
"First night, honey?" she asked.
"Is it that obvious?" I grabbed paper towels, my hands shaking as I cleaned up. This was my third mistake in two hours. I'd almost given the wrong medication to a patient in 208. I'd forgotten to check someone's blood pressure. And now this.
Two days ago, I was Nora Chen, socialite. Now I was Nora Chen, disaster nurse who couldn't even handle a bedpan.
"You're doing fine," Mrs. Rodriguez said. She had kind eyes that reminded me of my mother. "I've seen plenty of nurses on their first night. You're better than most."
I wasn't sure I believed her, but her words made my chest feel less tight.
"Thank you," I whispered, finishing the cleanup. "Is there anything else you need?"
"Just someone to talk to for a minute. Gets lonely at night in hospitals." She patted the chair beside her bed. "Sit with me?"
I should have said no. I had other patients to check on. But something about her reminded me so much of Mom that I sat down.
"What's your story?" Mrs. Rodriguez asked. "And don't say you don't have one. Everyone working the night shift has a story."
I almost told her the truth. Almost spilled everything about Marcus and Vivian and my father. But I caught myself.
"I needed a fresh start," I said carefully. "My old life didn't fit anymore."
She nodded like she understood. "Sometimes we have to lose everything to find out what really matters."
Exactly what my mother had said.
I stayed with Mrs. Rodriguez for ten minutes, holding her hand while she told me about her grandchildren. When I finally left, I felt a little less broken.
The night shift was strange. The hospital was quieter after midnight, but not silent. Machines beeped. People coughed. Somewhere down the hall, someone was crying. The fluorescent lights made everything look slightly unreal, like I was walking through a dream.
The other nurses were kind but busy. Rita from the ER had gotten me this position, and I was grateful. The head nurse, Maria, showed me the supply closets and medication carts. She introduced me to the other night shift nurses—Jamie, who was studying to be a doctor, and Keisha, who'd been doing this for ten years.
"Night shift is different," Keisha explained while we refilled medication trays together. "You see people at their most vulnerable. No visitors. No distractions. Just them and their fear. Your job is to be the calm in the middle of their storm."
I wanted to be that person. I needed to be that person.
At 1:30 AM, an alarm went off in room 405. I ran with Maria, my heart pounding. The patient—a middle-aged man named Mr. Chen (no relation, thank God)—was having trouble breathing.
"Get the oxygen," Maria ordered.
I moved on instinct, remembering my training from four years ago. My hands were steady as I helped Maria adjust the oxygen mask. Within minutes, Mr. Chen was breathing normally again.
"Good work, Nora," Maria said, and the praise made me feel like I'd won a gold medal.
Maybe I could do this. Maybe I could actually be good at something real.
At 2:00 AM, Maria told me to take my break. The nurse's station was empty. Most of the night shift staff were in patient rooms or catching quick naps in the break room.
I sat in the quiet, staring at the computer screen that showed all the patient monitors. Green lines bouncing up and down. Hearts beating. Lives continuing.
And then I started crying.
I couldn't help it. The tears just came—two days of holding everything together finally breaking apart. I cried for my mother who died too young. For my father who never loved me. For Marcus who never saw me. For the life I'd lost that I never really wanted anyway.
I cried because I was exhausted and scared and alone.
I cried because I'd slept in a homeless shelter last night, and the woman next to me had screamed in her sleep.
I cried because I had thirty-seven dollars left and no idea how I'd survive.
But I cried quietly, with my hand over my mouth, because I couldn't let anyone see me fall apart.
When I finally stopped, I wiped my eyes and took a deep breath. I was about to get up when I noticed something on the desk.
A cream-colored envelope with my name on it.
My heart skipped. I looked around, but the hallway was empty. No one was nearby.
I opened the envelope with shaking hands.
Inside was a single piece of paper with the most beautiful handwriting I'd ever seen. Elegant. Careful. Like someone had taken time with every letter.
"I saw you helping the scared patient in room 312. You were kind even though you looked tired. You held her hand when you didn't have to. You listened when she needed to talk. The world needs more people like you. Keep going. You're stronger than you know."
No signature.
I read it three times, my tears starting again—but different tears this time. Someone had seen me. Not Nora Chen the socialite. Not Nora Chen the scandal. Just me, being a nurse, doing my job.
Someone had noticed.
I looked around again, searching for whoever left this. The hallway was still empty. The cameras in the corners were dark—I'd learned earlier they didn't work on this floor due to budget cuts.
Who wrote this? And how did they know my name?
I tucked the letter into my pocket like it was made of gold.
The rest of my shift passed in a blur. I checked vitals, gave medications, helped patients to the bathroom. My feet hurt from the cheap shoes I'd bought at a thrift store. My back ached. My brain felt fuzzy from exhaustion.
But I kept touching that letter in my pocket, and it gave me strength.
At 6:00 AM, as dawn started lightening the windows, I was restocking supplies when I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned and found myself face-to-face with a man in surgical scrubs.
He was tall, maybe mid-thirties, with dark hair that looked like he'd run his hands through it a hundred times. But it was his eyes that stopped me—golden brown, intense, and currently staring right at me.
Then I noticed his hands. They were covered in scars. Long, silvery lines running across both palms and up his forearms. Surgery scars, I realized. Bad ones.
"You're the new night nurse," he said. His voice was cold. Flat. Like he was stating a fact, not starting a conversation.
"Yes. Nora Chen." I held out my hand automatically, the way I'd been taught at a thousand society events.
He looked at my hand but didn't shake it. "Dr. Bennett. Try not to kill anyone on your first week."
Then he walked away, leaving me standing there with my hand hanging in the air like an idiot.
Wow. Rude much?
"Don't take it personally," Keisha said, appearing beside me. "Dr. Bennett is like that with everyone. Brilliant surgeon, but he's got the personality of a frozen fish."
"What happened to his hands?" I asked before I could stop myself.
Keisha's expression turned sad. "Car accident six years ago. His fiancée died. He almost lost his hands too. Took fifteen surgeries to save them. He works night shift now because..." She shrugged. "Well, no one really knows why. He doesn't talk to anyone."
I watched Dr. Bennett disappear around the corner, and something twisted in my chest. A man with scarred hands who worked nights and didn't talk to people.
Just like me—broken and hiding in the darkness.
My shift ended at noon. I changed out of my scrubs, exhausted to my bones. I'd survived my first night. Barely.
As I walked through the empty hallway toward the exit, I passed the nurse's station where I'd found the letter. On impulse, I stopped.
The desk was clean. No more envelopes. But tucked under the keyboard was something I hadn't noticed before—a small notebook, the kind doctors use.
I picked it up and opened it.
Inside, on the first page, was the same elegant handwriting from my letter.
"Patient observations - Dr. E. Bennett"
My breath caught.
Dr. Bennett. The rude surgeon with the scarred hands.
He wrote the letter.
But why? He'd barely looked at me. He'd told me not to kill anyone. He clearly didn't like new nurses.
So why would he write something so kind?
I flipped through the notebook quickly. It was full of patient notes, nothing personal. But on the very last page, there was a single line that made my heart stop:
"The new nurse cries when she thinks no one is watching. She's running from something. I know that look. I see it in the mirror every night."
The notebook fell from my hands.
Dr. Bennett wasn't just some rude surgeon. He was watching me. Noticing me. Seeing things I thought I'd hidden.
And somehow, that was more terrifying—and more thrilling—than anything that had happened in the past three days.