In the stillness of that winter morning, the Minneapolis VA felt less like a hospital and more like a sanctuary for shared grief. Colleagues who had weathered countless codes and crises together now faced a loss they could not treat, fix, or reverse. They spoke of Alex Pretti in quiet, reverent tones: the nurse who stayed late without being asked, who learned veterans’ stories, who remembered the names of their grandchildren. His death in a federal shooting had become a national headline, but inside those walls, he was not a symbol or a case — he was family.

As flowers and handwritten notes piled up at the entrance, the anger and confusion surrounding his killing did not overshadow his life; they deepened the urgency to remember it fully. Staff clung to the small, human details: his steady voice during a code, his habit of checking on the most anxious families twice, his way of making the ICU feel less cold. In a hospital dedicated to those who served, Alex’s legacy now lives in the quiet decisions his coworkers make every day — to listen longer, to soften their tone, to treat every frightened patient the way he did. His absence is a wound, but his example has become a promise they are determined to keep.