The morning lingered differently this time. After the soft, heavy tones of old man Ramus's story and the reluctant gravity of Theophilus's confession, the room remained solemnly quiet. Even the idle hums of the monitors and the occasional shuffling from the hallway seemed subdued, as if the air within the four walls had agreed to hold its breath just a little longer.
By legal routine, the second wave of checkups occurred a few hours later—chart markings, drip adjustments, a few questions too mundane to remember. Ramus sat through it like always, mild irritation disguised beneath folded hands. Theophilus answered with nods. The nurses left with their usual politeness.
And then, time was theirs again.
The afternoon light sliced through the curtains, drawing long lines on the floor like quiet sentences. Ramus leaned back into his pillow, one hand folded under his chin. Theophilus stared at the ceiling. A kind of mutual silence existed between them now—not the absence of conversation, but the presence of something unspoken. The memory of words and their aftertaste.
They did not speak much through that midday lull. Instead, they lived in the weight of what had already been said. It was an old, tired sun that climbed the sky that day—golden, hot, relentless. But inside, the air was cooled and thick with the sterile breath of the hospital.
Theophilus turned to his side, reaching for the small white remote beside his bed. It clicked. The TV screen hummed to life. He flipped idly, not really watching. Cartoons. News. Commercials for lawyers. He settled on a cooking channel and left it running on mute.
Ramus eventually raised his voice, not to speak but to hum—quiet, slow, and unfamiliar. A hum without a tune. Just noise, rhythmic and fading in and out like wind brushing reeds in a field. Theophilus didn't comment. It was the kind of sound you didn't interrupt. It was the kind of sound that gave shape to silence.
The nurse returned around noon with their lunch—trays of pale green and beige foods, lightly steamed vegetables, slices of chicken, a bland roll, and water. Old man Ramus peered into his tray and made a face.
"I swear, these mashed potatoes got less soul than a ghost's handshake."
Theophilus cracked a grin without laughing, lifting his fork. "Still better than that porridge from the first week."
Ramus nodded in mock horror. "Don't remind me."
They ate slowly. Not out of politeness or habit, but because time didn't rush them anymore. Between bites, Ramus sipped water like it was a fine whiskey. Theophilus picked at his roll, distracted, gazing occasionally toward the curtained bed where Jeffrey still remained out of sight.
"Still no movement from him?" Ramus asked with a tilt of his head.
"No," Theophilus said. "Still quiet."
Ramus nodded thoughtfully, then glanced down at his tray. "This food tastes like a sin."
Theophilus snorted. "Then stop eating it."
"Can't. I'm too invested."
Afternoon melted into early evening. The sun tilted its head to the west, its light casting softer shades across the room. The TV remained on, still muted, now airing some kind of drama. One of the nurses passed again to check the vitals and smiled kindly at Ramus, who winked in return, old habits refusing to die.
"I used to be better at this," Ramus muttered.
"Better at what?" Theophilus asked.
"Passing time," he said. "Now it feels like time's just passing me."
Theophilus didn't answer. He just adjusted his pillow and stared at the wall where the sunlight touched the upper corner like a painter dabbing yellow onto a canvas.
Evening fell like a sigh.
Outside, city lights shimmered. Inside, machines beeped softly. Nurses talked in the hallway. Distant voices called for attention. Footsteps came and went. But their room—Room 234—remained a bubble. A capsule of slow minutes and shared air.
Ramus fell asleep first, snoring lightly.
Theophilus stayed awake longer. He watched the clock tick. He shifted in bed. He replayed conversations and forgot them in equal measure. The tune Ramus had sung earlier still lingered somewhere between his ears and heart. It came and went. It didn't leave. Not really.
And when his eyes finally closed, it was not for sleep. It was for the slow, thoughtful drifting that comes when memory and reality begin to blur.
It was a day that had risen, reached its peak, and sunk again. A day that had done nothing extraordinary, and yet, was full of everything.
Everything in nothing.
----
The night after Theophilus fell into his slow, tired sleep was like every other night in the hospital—dim lights flickering against sterile walls, the occasional distant beeping of machines, and the gentle hum of air conditioning trying to soothe the spaces between life and dying.
Old man Ramus didn't sleep. Not well, at least. He never really did. He'd adjusted to the restless silence over the years, but tonight was different. Something in the air lingered. The kind of silence that doesn't wait for a sound, but one that holds its breath. A silence born not of peace, but remembrance.
The night crept by slowly, each minute dragging its heels like a reluctant visitor. At some point, Ramus found his mind drifting back to the girl he'd spoken of—the woman whose name still echoed gently within him. But he didn't speak it again. Some names only need to be said once.
By the time the first hints of dawn stretched across the window pane, Theophilus stirred again. His waking was soft and unhurried, like someone still unsure if they'd left their dreams behind. The bed creaked under his shifting weight, and across the room, Ramus was already up, standing by the edge of the small cupboard, drawing out the battered old checkerboard he kept folded beneath a book of short stories.
They didn't speak at first.
It had become a habit now—one borne out of convenience but shaped by quiet understanding. They were both early risers, more from discomfort than discipline. And so, every morning for the last two, they'd greeted the sun with checkers and silence.
Today was no different. Ramus set the board between them atop a collapsible hospital tray. He began placing the round pieces—dark ones first, then the light. His fingers trembled slightly, not from age alone, but from something else—something he couldn't quite put to words.
Theophilus was just about to settle in when a voice sliced the quiet. It wasn't loud. In fact, it was so soft it nearly dissolved into the walls.
"...hey."
Faint. Feeble. Fleeting. Jeffrey.
Theophilus paused. He glanced over at the drawn curtain separating Jeffrey's bed from theirs. For a moment, he thought it might've been his imagination. Ramus didn't seem to hear it at all, continuing to set up the pieces as if they were preparing for a national match.
But Theophilus heard it. He just... didn't react. He didn't want to. So he sat and waited.
Ramus placed the final piece, looked at Theophilus, and smiled.
"Black or white?"
"I'll go black."
"Alright then. Let's make this one interesting."
They started.
The first thing he did — Theophilus opened with a standard side advance, moving his third piece from the left two spaces diagonally. It was aggressive, a maneuver designed to provoke early trades.
Old man Ramus countered with a central block, keeping his back line strong and letting Theophilus dictate the pace.
Theophilus traded—sacrificing a piece for position. It was the kind of move you'd only make if you understood long-term gains over short-term preservation.
Ramus captured, but left his flank exposed. He smiled. He wanted to see what Theophilus would do with an opportunity.
Theophilus paused, then advanced his leftmost piece, beginning a slow crawl toward kinging territory. Ramus nodded.
Ramus set up a trap. Classic bait. He moved a piece into range, knowing it would draw a greedy player into a corner.
Theophilus didn't take the bait. He slid his central piece into a defensive position, guarding both flanks.
Ramus raised a brow. "You mind letting an old man win?"
"Maybe."
They played on.
Halfway through the game, a cough rippled from the other side of the curtain. Not a normal cough. One of those guttural, heavy sounds—like something rattling in the chest that had no business still being there. It silenced the room.
This time, Ramus heard it.
He turned slowly to the curtain, his eyes fixed not on the fabric, but on the shadows. Jeffrey's form was faint—just a lurching silhouette caught in a ripple of early morning light.
It moved again. Uncomfortably.
Theophilus stared. It had been days since they'd heard anything from Jeffrey. Days since his usual attempts at banter, sarcasm, or just plain annoying commentary.
Then, a voice. Fragile. It cracked through the curtain like dry wood splitting under pressure.
"...Who won the game?"
Ramus chuckled, more out of reflex than humor. "Theophilus did."
Theophilus shrugged. "Barely."
Jeffrey coughed again. It sounded awful.
"Really?" he said, his words rough and labored. "The first thing you guys do is play checkers every morning? That's some senior citizen activity right there."
Theophilus smirked. "You're one to talk. First thing you ask about is who won? Not, you know, your mom? Girlfriend?"
Jeffrey laughed. Then choked.
"I don't even have a girlfriend," he wheezed. "And my mum's fine. I made sure of that before I came here. Well... before the cancer brought me here."
His voice trailed off into a small, pained hum.
There was a beat of silence. The kind that settles in after something real is said.
Then Theophilus asked, gently but firmly: "What stage?"
Jeffrey didn't answer right away. When he did, it was with a dry chuckle.
"Stage four."
Neither of them spoke after that.
Ramus tried to crack a joke, something about how old men like him had outlived two ex-wives and a dog named Hercules. It wasn't funny. Not even close.
But his laugh—the weird, creaky, out-of-place laugh—was so awkward and jarring that it made both Theophilus and Jeffrey burst out in genuine, if confused, laughter.
They laughed because it was dumb.
They laughed because it was painful.
They laughed because that's what you do when crying isn't allowed.
And through the drawn curtains and the silence and the fading morning light, the hospital room held a moment—fragile, funny, and sad all at once.
A moment that belonged only to them.