The late afternoon sun was already slipping behind the tall hospital building when I stepped out through the side entrance for my short break. The air felt heavy—humid in the way only hospital air can feel after hours of disinfectant, sweat, and crying families. I inhaled deeply, trying to cleanse my chest, focusing on the small patch of green to my right. The hospital had installed a tiny playground beside the staff parking lot, a sort of "compromise" space for workers who needed to bring their children on long shifts.
My daughter was there—swinging gently, her legs barely brushing the sand beneath. She looked small against the cold metal frame, as if the playground belonged to a bigger world than she did. Her hair caught the fading sunlight, turning it into a halo. For a moment, I just watched her, letting my heartbeat soften.
"Mommy!" she waved when she saw me. Her voice always cut through everything else—alarms, call bells, code blues, trauma cases. Every sound in this hospital demanded something from me, but her voice was the one that gave me something back.
I forced a smile, wiping the sweat from my upper lip. "Baby, come here." My voice came out softer than I expected.
She hopped off the swing and ran toward me, her shoes kicking up thin dust trails. When she reached me, she wrapped her arms around my legs, her cheek pressing against the fabric of my scrubs.
"Your break finished?" she asked.
"Almost." I smoothed her hair. "You have to come inside with me soon. It's getting dark."
She looked back at the playground, reluctantly, as if leaving the swings felt like stepping away from freedom itself.
"Just five more minutes?" she pleaded.
That familiar tug pulled inside my chest. The tug of wanting to give her childhood, not just survival. Wanting her life to be defined by play, not by the trauma she had witnessed. But the shadows stretching across the pavement whispered urgency. Something within me prickled—an uneasiness I couldn't explain.
I crouched to meet her eyes. "No, honey. Not today. Mommy has to go back inside, and you'll stay in the resting room, okay? We'll watch cartoons later."
She puffed her cheeks dramatically but nodded. "Okay."
I took her hand and led her toward the staff entrance. The metal door groaned when I pulled it—it always groaned, a small but constant reminder of how old this side of the building was. I guided her through the narrow corridor that led to the lounge where some nurses kept blankets, snacks, and broken crayons for kids.
The fluorescent lights were too bright inside. They always felt artificial—like they were trying too hard to imitate daylight. I glanced around; the corridor was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums, making the silence heavier, not lighter.
"You'll stay right here, okay?" I gestured toward the sofa. "Do you want juice?"
She nodded. "Apple."
"Okay. Sit tight. I'll be back in a few minutes."
She kicked off her shoes and climbed onto the sofa, curling into a small ball the way she always did when she felt safe. That sight—her tiny body in a massive adult couch—gave me a flicker of peace.
I kissed the top of her head and stepped out.
As soon as the lounge door closed behind me, the hallway seemed colder. The chill crawled up my arms, raising goosebumps through my scrubs.
You're being dramatic, I told myself. Hospitals always creaked, always shifted, always groaned in the wind or when the AC cycled. But the silence felt wrong.
I forced myself to walk. My shift wasn't over—I still had three hours left. I wasn't new to exhaustion, but this felt deeper. The kind of fatigue that seeps into your bones.
The ward was a few corridors away. As I approached, I caught sight of a stretcher being pushed from the opposite direction, two EMTs shouting something I couldn't make out. A code, maybe. Trauma cases were common. I'd learned not to let my imagination jump.
Passing the nurses' station, I exchanged tired nods with my colleagues.
"Back already?" one of them asked.
"Yeah," I sighed. "Kid's inside. Playground's getting dark."
"You're lucky. My daughter won't step foot in here," she said. "Says it smells like ghosts."
I blinked. "Kids say weird things."
She shrugged and returned to typing.
I turned down the corridor toward Room 213, where I was scheduled to check vitals. But halfway there, I froze.
Something shifted in my peripheral vision.
A flicker—not of light, but of movement. A blur near the end of the hall. My breath hitched. The corridor's fluorescent lights buzzed as if reacting to my sudden tension.
But the hall was empty.
You're tired, Jenny. Overtired.
I shook it off and continued walking. My footsteps echoed slightly—too loud, too defined. I glanced back, expecting someone to be behind me. No one.
I tried to anchor myself:
You're in the hospital. You're safe. You're awake. You're working.
But that last word felt false. Working felt like pretending I was still fully in this world.
When I reached Room 213 and pushed the door open, my chest unclenched a little. The patient inside—an older man recovering from surgery—gave me a small smile.
"Back again, miss?"
"Always," I said.
Routine kept me steady. Check pulse. Check BP. Ask about pain. Change IV bag. Replace urine output sheet. The predictable choreography of patient care was a shield, something I could hide inside.
But when I stepped out of the room, something felt wrong again.
The hallway lights dimmed—not flickered, not buzzed—just dimmed, as though someone turned a dial. My eyes strained to adjust.
"Hello?" I called out.
Only the hum of the air vents responded.
I checked the time. Only ten minutes had passed since I left my daughter in the lounge.
Maybe I should check on her.
I turned back toward the staff wing.
With each step, the silence thickened. The corridors seemed longer. The shadows sharper. The hospital—usually a hive of beeping monitors and shuffling footsteps—felt abandoned.
Something moved again, that same blur at the corner of my vision.
"Stop it," I whispered to myself.
But my pace quickened. When I reached the lounge hallway, the overhead lights flickered sharply. This time, the flicker came with a sound—like electricity ripping through old wiring.
My pulse jumped. I hurried.
When I reached the lounge door, I exhaled and touched the handle.
Then I froze.
Inside—I could hear something. Not my daughter's voice. Not the cartoon theme songs they usually played on the TV.
It was… humming.
A deep, slow hum. Not human. Not mechanical. A vibration that seeped through the floor tiles into my bones.
My skin crawled.
I pushed the door open.
The lounge was empty.
The sofa cushions were indented—my daughter had been there. Her tiny shoes were still on the floor. The blanket she'd wrapped around her legs was crumpled near the armrest.
But she wasn't there anymore.
"Baby?" My voice cracked. I stepped further in. "Sweetheart, where are you?"
Silence.
The hum had stopped.
My heartbeat thundered.
I checked behind the table. Behind the lockers. Under the desk. I called her name again, louder. I checked the bathroom connected to the lounge—it was empty, lights buzzing sharply.
Panic clawed up my throat.
"No. No no no no—" I slapped a hand over my mouth to steady my breathing. "Okay. Okay. Think."
The hospital was safe. She couldn't have wandered far. Maybe another nurse saw her leaving and guided her toward the childcare area. Maybe she went to the vending machines.
But why was the room humming?
I stepped backward into the hallway. My eyes scanned the empty corridor—a long, sterile tunnel that seemed suddenly foreign. The air felt heavier. The walls seemed slightly…wrong. As if something had shifted while I wasn't looking.
I called her name again. Louder.
"Baby! Come out! Mommy's here!"
My voice echoed—and the echo didn't sound like me. It was delayed. Off-pitch. Distorted.
A chill spread through me.
Something was happening.
Something I thought I escaped years ago.
The Boundary.
The world that almost swallowed me whole. The place where the ghost husband waited, hidden behind the veil of grief and trauma.
"No," I whispered. "Not again."
I rushed down the corridor, checking room after room. The lights flickered with every step. My reflection in the glass panel of the fire extinguisher box stretched unnaturally, distorting as if the glass had ripples.
With each passing second, the hospital felt less like a hospital and more like a decaying version of itself—like a copy made from a bad memory.
My daughter was missing.
And the walls were changing.
I reached the main intersection of the corridor and froze.
At the far end… the emergency exit door was open a crack.
And I saw her.
Her little silhouette.
Standing just beyond the door.
"Baby!" I screamed and broke into a run.
But as I sprinted toward her, something shifted around her.
The air. The lights. The doorframe.
The world bent—just slightly, just enough to make my stomach drop.
And then—
She vanished.
Not turned the corner. Not ran.
She flickered out of sight like a candle in a cold wind.
My legs buckled. I slammed into the wall, gripping the railing to keep myself upright.
"No… no… please…" My voice broke into a sob. "Not again. Not again."
The lights above me flickered violently.
A low rumble trembled through the floor.
And as I forced myself to stand, to move, to keep searching—
I felt it.
A cold breath behind my ear.
A whisper.
Soft.
Familiar.
"I told you," the voice murmured. "You can't leave me."
My blood froze.
I spun around—
But the corridor was empty.
And the hospital lights went out.
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