Uncle Ray calmly drew the hospital curtains closed. Then he removed his hearing aids and placed them on the tray beside the bed.
The room changed the moment he did it—like the world outside had been turned down to a distant hum. Monitors still beeped softly, steady and indifferent, but everything else felt far away.
He adjusted the blanket over the patient’s hands, careful not to disturb the IV line. His movements were practiced, almost gentle in a way that didn’t ask for attention.
“You don’t need me to hear everything right now,” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.
For a moment, he just stood there, looking at the still shape in the bed—watching for the smallest sign, the smallest change that meant he wasn’t too late.
Then he sat down slowly, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor.
Outside the curtain, life kept moving.
Inside, he waited.
