Every Night, I See You

Monica turns her head, following his gaze to her daughter.

"When I got the call from the emergency room," she says, her voice remarkably calm, "my heart… it dropped. Literally. Like something inside me just vanished."

Julian lifts his eyes to her again. There's no theatrics in her voice. No dramatics. Just memory, spoken plainly.

"But actually," she continues, her gaze lingering on Grace's sleeping face, "I feel less afraid now."

Julian studies her, quietly startled. She looks back at him with a steady warmth that both comforts and puzzles him.

"I just know," she says, "and I believe—truly—that God is protecting her. And because of that, I'm not scared anymore."

She offers him a look that isn't just reassurance—it's an invitation. A quiet handing over of peace.

"So you should also not fear."

Julian feels his heart warm at Monica's words.

Yes… God is protecting her.

He breathes in slowly, letting the weight on his chest lift just slightly. The air feels less heavy now. Less full of fear.

He nods. 

"You're right," he says, his voice softer than before, touched with a quiet conviction. "I'll also… try not to worry."

A faint smile tugs at his lips, the kind that barely forms but carries weight all the same.

Monica smiles back, that kind of motherly smile that holds both weariness and kindness. 

"You should go home now and get some rest," she says gently. "You've been here long enough."

Julian glances at her. In the golden spill of the lantern light, she still wears her white hospital gown—clean, crisp, clinical—but it does little to hide the lines of fatigue on her face. She's clearly just come from her shift. Her posture is upright, but he can tell she's running on reserves.

"No," Julian says quickly, shaking his head. "Actually… I can stay. Please—you go home and get some rest, Ma'am."

Monica blinks, surprised. Her brows lift slightly as her gaze settles on him. "You sure?" she asks.

"Yes," Julian says without hesitation. "It's before the final exam season, as you probably know. I'm not teaching classes right now."

He looks again at her white coat, the way it drapes over her shoulders, the institutional badge clipped just above her heart. 

She's a professor too, he realizes.

"I have time," he adds quietly. "I can spend the night here. Really."

Monica hesitates, uncertain. She shifts slightly in her chair, glancing between Julian and her daughter. Her hand tightens briefly on Grace's arm, as if checking for warmth.

It isn't that she doesn't trust him. She does. It's just—she worries about him. She sees the tiredness hiding behind his eyes, the faint tremble in his hand as he adjusts the blanket near Grace's side. She knows what it's like to sit beside someone you love in a place where time seems to stand still.

She doesn't want him to carry too much of that weight.

"Well…" she says softly, her voice trailing for a moment. Her gaze settles on Grace again—her daughter, lying so still, lips parted slightly, looking as though she's simply fallen into a deep sleep. A peaceful illusion that doesn't match the truth.

Monica exhales slowly.

"Maybe just tonight, then," she says at last, her voice warm but measured. "Thank you, Julian."

Julian gives a polite nod to her. The gesture is brief, respectful.

"Have a good night, Ma'am," he says, his voice steady and controlled, the words almost like a ritual he's performed countless times.

"Thank you." Her voice is soft, almost distant as she responds, a brief smile tugging at her lips.

Monica slowly turns, her footsteps quiet on the wooden floor. She doesn't look back as she heads for the door, her silhouette disappearing into the dim hallway beyond.

The door clicks shut behind her, and the room falls into an eerie stillness.

Julian's gaze lingers for a moment longer on the door, watching it close completely. In the silence that follows, the only sound that remains is the faint crackling of the lantern's flame, the soft glow flickering against the walls. Outside the window, snow falls in gentle swirls, drifting like ghosts in the cold night air.

It's just the two of them again.

Grace sits across from him, her presence almost otherworldly in the dim light. The room feels small now, the shadows stretching, folding into the corners as if they're alive. Just Grace and him. No one else.

She squints, just slightly, the motion so subtle it's almost imperceptible at first. The smile that once played on her lips vanishes in the blink of an eye.

For a moment, Julian can't help but wonder what's happening behind her eyes. There's something distant about her now, as if she's no longer in the room with him. She's somewhere else entirely.

Grace's eyes narrow further, her brow furrowing slightly, and Julian watches her with quiet intensity. There's no sign of movement in her hands, no gesture that might suggest she's physically present in the moment. It's as if her body is here, but her mind... her mind has wandered far away.

It's a strange, almost unsettling feeling. The stillness in her face doesn't match the quickened pulse in his chest.

"Grace?" Julian calls her name softly, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might break the fragile silence.

She doesn't react at first, her eyes still lost in whatever distant place they've traveled to.

"Where are you?" His words hang in the air, a gentle inquiry, a quiet plea.

The room feels even smaller now, the weight of the question lingering between them. The only sound left is the faint hiss of the lantern flame and the rhythm of snowflakes dancing against the glass.

Julian waits, watching her closely, hoping for some sign that she's coming back to him, that she'll rejoin the world he still inhabits.

"Where are you heading off to?" Angela's voice rings out from the back as I descend the narrow staircase that leads to the lobby.

The soft creak of my boots against the old wooden steps fills the otherwise quiet space.

I pause and glance over my shoulder, offering a smile. 

"I'm off to the grocery store. Noticed the pantry's almost bare—barely anything left," I reply, brushing my hand along the railing as I make my way down.

"Oh, right..." Angela nods, her tone thoughtful, a hint of concern creeping in.

She glances toward the window, where the thick curtain of snow outside is visible even through the frosted glass. "But it's snowing so heavily out there. You can barely walk through the piles of snow."

I smile, the warmth in my expression contrasting the cold creeping through the walls. I shake my head lightly, a playful glint in my eyes.

"It's all right. I actually love walking in the snow."

The words feel almost like a reassurance, both to her and to myself.

"No, but it'll be difficult. It's piled up so high," she says, her brow furrowing slightly in worry, though her voice remains gentle.

I can see the hesitation, but there's no insistence. It's clear she'd rather I didn't go, but at the same time, I sense a quiet understanding. She's probably just being protective. And maybe, too, a little relieved that I'm handling something practical like this. After all, she's been running herself ragged caring for the women on the third floor all day.

"It's okay," I assure her with a soft smile. "I'll do it. It won't take long."

"Then, I'll go with you, Hannah," she offers immediately, her voice warm but determined.

I shake my head, holding my hand out slightly to stop her.

"No, no. You've already spent the whole day taking care of the refugee women upstairs. Go back to them. I can make a quick trip." My words come easily, almost instinctively, as if I've said them a hundred times before.

"All right then…" Angela hesitates for just a second before giving me a small smile. "Come back safely, okay?"

"I will," I reply, my smile widening as I nod at her.

With that, I turn toward the heavy entrance door. It feels more like a barrier than a mere entryway, a thick slab of wood that takes a little muscle to open, especially in the cold. The weight of it pulls against me, but with a deep breath, I push it open, stepping out into the sharp, biting air.

It's nearing 5 pm, and the sky is already cloaked in twilight, the sun having dipped below the horizon hours ago. The snow outside is just as Angela described—an almost impassable sea of white. It stretches endlessly, the piles having accumulated so high that it feels like a small, frozen mountain range has erupted on the sidewalks.

"Wow," I murmur, my voice tinged with awe. 

The sky is a heavy gray, nearly black, and the snow is falling in thick, weighty flakes, blurring the lines between earth and sky. It feels like I'm standing in the middle of a dream. 

I open my umbrella with a flick of my wrist, the fabric folding out with a soft whoosh, and with a steadying breath, I tell myself, "All right, here I go."