I still remember the first time I saw him standing in the doorway, framed by the dim corridor light. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance—no dramatic entrance, no halo of revelation—just a quiet steadiness that felt strangely out of place in a world of alarms and rushed footsteps. His questions were ordinary, but his attention was not. It was the way he lingered, the way his eyes actually met mine, as if he saw more than a diagnosis or a bed number. Each night, his words stitched something small but vital back together inside me.

When I learned he didn’t exist on any schedule, I felt foolish for how much I’d relied on him. Yet that folded note in my bag refused to be dismissed as a trick of medication or memory. In the end, I chose not to solve the mystery. Instead, I let it stand as proof that care can arrive in unexpected forms—seen or unseen, human or imagined—and that sometimes, what saves us isn’t certainty, but the simple belief that we are still worth showing up for.