Ella
I stare at the clipboard in my hand, scanning the patient's chart, my fingers moving almost mechanically as I adjust the IV drip attached to his arm.
The sterile smell of the hospital clings to me like a second skin, the fluorescent lights humming faintly above. My patient, an elderly man with wisps of silver hair, is sleeping soundly. The soft rise and fall of his chest reassures me. I make a few more notes on the clipboard, my mind wandering for a split second to how utterly quiet it is in this ward today, a rare moment of peace.
Just as I'm about to hang the clipboard back on the bed, the door swings open. Jacob strides in, an anxious look etched across his face. His eyes are wide, darting nervously around the room before landing on me.
"Ella," he breathes, running a hand through his disheveled hair.
I raise an eyebrow, immediately feeling the shift in the air. "What's wrong?"