The generator hummed faintly in the background, its distant rhythm oddly comforting. Kamsi flipped through a patient's folder at the nurses' station, pretending to be absorbed in lab results. But her eyes kept darting to the corridor. To him.
He leaned against the far wall — tall, freshly shaved, the faint smell of antiseptic mixed with citrus trailing him. His ID badge read: Dr. Tega Mofe, Surgical Registrar.
She hadn't seen him in five years. Not since that rainy night in Enugu, in the ambulance, when they'd both failed to resuscitate the pregnant woman who had bled out between states. That night had torn something between them. And now, here he was, not in a memory—but in her hospital, her domain.
Kamsi's grip tightened on the folder.
"Tega," she said as she approached him.
His head turned slowly. "Kamsi."
Just her name. No greeting. No smile. But his voice… still low, still rich, still dangerous.
"Why are you here?"
"Transferred from the mainland unit. Just resumed."
Kamsi nodded. Professional. Distant. Safe.
"I didn't know you were in surgery," she muttered.
"I wasn't. Until everything else burned."
Kamsi blinked, caught off guard. He looked away, jaw clenched. That wasn't a metaphor. Something in him had burned—she saw it in the shadows under his eyes.
"I've got rounds," she said abruptly.
He didn't reply. But as she turned to leave, he called out quietly, "Do you ever think about that night?"
She froze.
Every night.
"No," she lied.
He didn't stop her as she walked away.
But all night, Kamsi couldn't breathe right. Couldn't think. The past wasn't staying in the past. And Tega's return was not an accident. It was a spark—and everything dry in her life was kindling.
Back in her office, the envelope from earlier still lay in her drawer. She hadn't told anyone about the photo. About Adaora's sketch. About the accusation cloaked in charcoal.
She stared at her reflection in the glass pane. The doctor coat, the stethoscope, the name tag. All armor. All surface.
She was unraveling. And now, the man who had once known how to read her beneath all that was standing a few feet down the corridor.
Three days passed.
Kamsi avoided him like a symptom she didn't want to diagnose. She saw Tega in the OR gallery once, scrubbing in before a cholecystectomy. Another time, he walked into the staff canteen just as she was leaving. Their eyes would lock. Then break. Like glass under pressure.
But everything fractured completely on a Wednesday.
She was rushing out of Theatre 3, gloves still on, blood staining her gown. A Code Blue had just been called from the psych wing.
A nurse shouted: "It's Adaora."
Kamsi's heart sank.
She reached the ward breathless. Adaora had barricaded herself inside the utility room with two scalpel blades and a packet of paracetamol. The glass window had already been cracked.
Tega was already there.
"Let me try," he said.
Kamsi opened her mouth to object—then stopped.
He approached the door, his voice calm, steady, like something from the past that still worked.
"Adaora," he called softly. "My name is Dr. Mofe. I'm not here to harm you. I just want to listen."
A silence.
Then Adaora's voice, muffled but sharp. "You people always want to listen after you've already hurt someone."
He crouched by the door. "That might be true. But I'm still here."
Kamsi felt something in her chest shift.
Ten minutes passed.
Then, slowly, the door creaked open. Tega stepped back, giving her space.
Adaora emerged. Tear-streaked, shaking, holding out the blades like surrender. Kamsi moved forward to take them. Their eyes met briefly.
Not a patient and a doctor. Two women. One grieving, one guilty.
As security led Adaora back to her room, Kamsi turned to Tega.
"You always knew how to talk people off the ledge," she said quietly.
He looked at her, tired. "I just recognize the edge. I've stood there too."
Later that night, under the pretense of needing to check a patient file, she walked into his on-call room.
He didn't look surprised to see her.
"Can't sleep?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"You still write in that notebook?" he asked.
She hesitated. Then nodded. "You?"
He pulled open a drawer and tossed a leather-bound journal on the table. It was worn, the corners frayed.
"You said everything burned," she said. "What happened, Tega?"
He leaned back, exhaled.
"I lost a boy on the table. Fifteen. Appendicitis turned septic. The mother stood in the hallway. Same spot you were in when we lost Amaka."
Kamsi lowered her eyes.
"I told her we did our best. I told her God gives and takes. She just looked at me like I was dirt. And maybe I was."
He paused. "After that, I couldn't scrub in for weeks. I started waking up with blood on my hands. Only it wasn't there. My mind was just... full."
"I know that feeling," Kamsi said.
"I know you do."
There was a moment.
He reached out, slowly, and touched her hand.
"You never forgave yourself either, did you?"
Her throat tightened.
"No."
They sat there in silence. Not as doctors. Not as colleagues. But as people scarred by the very work that gave them purpose.
In the distance, the emergency bell rang again.
Duty called.
But for a second longer, they held on to that silence.
Because in hospitals, love never enters cleanly.
It comes wounded.
The next morning, Kamsi opened her locker and found a note. No name. Just one line:
Forgiveness is a slow incision, but it heals clean.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cold metal.
Outside, the sun spilled into the corridor.
Maybe the wound would stop bleeding after all.