Page 7 of Grim

Room 204 first.

Mr. Martin lay propped up in bed, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. The soft hiss of oxygen filled the room. His daughter sat curled in the recliner beside him, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, eyes red from worry and lack of sleep.

Sophia checked the vitals, adjusted the IV pump, and offered a gentle smile. “He’s improving,” she said softly. “His numbers look better than yesterday.”

Her voice softened automatically, the same tone she used with her brothers when they were scared, with her mother when she was overwhelmed, with her father when he tried to hide his worry. She’d been the steady one her whole life. Some habits didn’t fade.

The daughter’s breath shuddered out. “Thank God. I just… I didn’t know if he’d make it.”

Sophia squeezed her hand. “He’s fighting. And he’s winning.”

She left the room with the daughter’s whispered thank you following her into the hall.

Room 207 next.

A stroke patient, confused, restless, frightened.

Sophia didn’t shy away from fear. She’d spent years in the ER learning how to meet panic with calm, how to steady a room with nothing but her voice.

Sophia stepped in, her voice dropping into the soft cadence she used instinctively. “Señor Rivera,” she murmured, smoothing the blanket over his legs. “Está bien. Estoy aquí.”

His breathing eased. His hands stilled. The tension in his shoulders loosened.

“Eso es,” she whispered. “Descansa.”

She dimmed the lights, checked his lines, and slipped back into the hall.

At the nurses’ station, she charted quickly, fingers flying over the keyboard. Her back throbbed. Her neck ached. Her stomach growled loud enough that Mariah, the other ICU nurse on duty, raised an eyebrow.

“When’s the last time you ate?” Mariah asked.

Sophia shrugged. “Lunch?”

“Lunch was twelve hours ago.”

Sophia smiled tiredly. “I’ll grab something after I check 212.”

Mariah rolled her eyes. “You always say that.”

Sophia didn’t deny it. She just kept moving.

Room 212 was quiet, a post-op patient sleeping peacefully, the soft beep of the heart monitor steady and reassuring.

Sophia adjusted the blankets, checked the surgical site, and made a note to page the surgeon in the morning.

When she stepped back into the hall, the weight of the shift settled over her. She leaned against the counter, rubbing the tension from her neck.

Her phone had buzzed earlier, a text from her mother asking if she could stop by tomorrow to help with something. She hadn’t answered yet. Not because she didn’t want to. Because she always said yes. And tonight, she didn’t have the energy to be needed again.

She loved them. She always had. But loving people sometimes meant carrying more than your share, and she’d learned to shoulder it without complaint. Strength wasn’t loud. It was quiet, steady, the kind that kept her moving even when she was tired down to the bone.

Her father would tell her to rest, but only after asking her to help him fix something first.

It was love, just the kind that always came with a little weight.

She exhaled slowly, letting the guilt settle the way it always did, familiar and heavy and impossible to shake.

Her milagro charm rested warm against her skin, the small silver heart catching the faint overhead light. She touched it without thinking, a habit, a grounding point, a reminder of the people she’d lost and the ones she still carried.