The gurney had been cleared. Linens replaced. The monitors reset. It was as if nothing had happened — as if a life hadn’t just ended there, twenty minutes ago.
Edan stood just outside the bay, his hands trembling in the pockets of his white coat. The grief still sat on his chest like a weight he couldn’t lift.
Then he heard Harper’s voice behind him — calm, even, but final.
“Wood. The boy’s family just arrived. I want you to talk to them.”
Edan turned, the words catching in his throat.
“Me?”
“You were in the room. You helped every second. They deserve a voice who was actually present — not just someone who walks in with a clipboard after it’s over.”
“But… I’m just a student—”
“You’re the right one.”
Harper held his gaze for a long moment, then looked down at his watch. “They’re waiting in Family Consult Room B. I told them someone who was with their son would come speak to them personally.”
Edan swallowed.
“Understood.”
The hallway to the family consult rooms always felt colder than the rest of the hospital — whether it was the tile or just the truth of what they were used for. These weren’t rooms for diagnosis or treatment.
They were rooms for endings.
Edan paused at the door, his hand on the knob. He could hear voices inside. Soft. Frayed.
[System Notification – Emotional Engagement Event: Active]
Mission: Speak with family of deceased patient
Objective: Deliver news with clarity and compassion
Emotional Impact: High
Reward: None
Penalty: None
This moment cannot be gamified.
This is for the living.
He let out a slow breath and stepped inside.
There were three people.
A woman sat on the couch closest to the door, hands clutched tightly around a crumpled tissue. She looked barely 40. Her face was hollow, her eyes swollen. Next to her sat a younger woman, maybe a sister or cousin, with one hand on her shoulder.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
And by the wall stood a tall, silent man in a dark mechanic’s jacket — eyes red, arms folded, jaw clenched like steel. The boy’s father.
All three turned when Edan entered.
The room was too quiet.
Edan bowed his head slightly. “My name is Edan Wood. I’m a medical student on the trauma team. I was… I was with your son when he arrived.”
The mother sat straighter. “You were with him? In the room?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes trembled. “Did he… did he say anything?”
Edan’s heart stuttered.
“No,” he said softly. “He was unconscious when the paramedics brought him in. We did everything we could. He was given multiple rounds of CPR. We decompressed his chest. We shocked his heart. We tried for nearly twenty minutes…”
The father didn’t blink. The sister tightened her grip on the mother’s shoulder.
Edan continued, forcing each word through the lump in his throat.
“...but his injuries were too severe. His heart never came back. I’m so sorry.”
The mother’s face twisted, her mouth parting in a silent wail before sound finally broke through — jagged, heart-deep sobs that seemed to come from her spine. The sister pulled her close, both crying now. The father remained still, unmoving, a statue carved from grief.
Edan stood there, helpless. There was no script for this part. No training, no interface, no system.
Just silence.
And pain.
Then the father finally spoke.
“How old are you?”
Edan blinked. “I’m twenty-three.”
The man nodded once, slowly.
“My son was nineteen.”
His voice cracked — a single fracture through stone.
“He wanted to be a firefighter. Wanted to do something that mattered.”
Edan swallowed. “He would’ve been good at it.”
The father’s eyes met his — bloodshot, unyielding.
“Were you there? The whole time?”
“Yes.”
“Did you try?”
“I swear to you,” Edan said, voice barely audible, “we did everything.”
The man exhaled through his nose. His shoulders dropped a fraction. Not forgiveness. Not peace.
But the smallest measure of closure.
The mother looked up. “Was he scared?”
Edan shook his head. “No. He wasn’t scared. And he wasn’t alone.”
Tears streamed down her face again, but this time they came softer — steadier.
That was all she had wanted to know.
Edan stood with them for a few more minutes, answering what he could, listening when they fell quiet. Eventually, the sister mouthed “Thank you” as he stepped out of the room.
He nodded — unable to say it back.
Hospital Rooftop, 7:15 p.m.
Edan stood by the railing, watching the city lights flicker on below. The air was cool, the sky streaked with the last threads of gold before dusk.
[System Alert: Emotional Resilience – Stage Complete]
You have successfully processed your first mortality encounter.
Trait: Emotional Resilience (Stage I – Active)
+20% focus retention during emotional or ethical events
Unlocks narrative memory markers for patients lost under your care
System Sync: 42%
[Journal Entry Saved: "The Quietest Room"]
This patient will be remembered. Future encounters with similar cases may trigger enhanced insight.
Edan didn’t open the full menu. Not now.
He didn’t need to see numbers.
The only thing that mattered was that when someone’s world fell apart, he hadn’t walked away. He had stayed. Listened. Witnessed.
It wasn’t bravery.
It was medicine.
Back downstairs, Dr. Harper stood waiting outside the elevator.
“You spoke with them?”
Edan nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
Harper studied his face for a long moment.
Then: “You did good.”
Edan wasn’t sure whether to thank him — so he just nodded again.
As they parted ways, the hallway felt less empty. The grief didn’t leave. But it settled. Sharpened into something that felt almost… bearable.
And beneath it all, the system quietly updated itself again.
Preparing him.
For the next one.