The sun had begun its slow descent over the skyline of Lusaka, casting warm gold light across the concrete skeleton of the city. From the rooftop of the hospital, the world below softened, almost forgivable. The screams and coughs and panicked footfalls of earlier blurred into a hush. The air smelled faintly of sanitizer and distant jacaranda blossoms.
Ilya sat cross-legged on a concrete bench near the edge of the roof, quietly eating the last corner of his chicken mayo sandwich. He always saved that last bite for when the city hit this specific shade of orange.
He chewed slowly. Deliberately. Not out of mindfulness or any therapeutic discipline, he just liked the way silence filled his mouth alongside food.
A nurse walked by the doorway leading back downstairs, didn't see him, and the metal door clanged shut behind her. The wind responded gently, brushing over the hairs on his arms like an old friend. His phone buzzed once beside him—Julian in the group chat again. Probably roasting someone. Ilya didn't open it.
Below the rooftop, the halls of the ward carried faint echoes of life. He could still hear the squeaky wheel of Mrs. Banda's walker. She'd probably be yelling for him any moment now—she always did around this time, claiming she saw her dead husband standing in the corner again.
He stood up slowly, pocketing his sandwich wrapper, and stepped back inside.
The fluorescent lights always felt too cold after the golden hour. He walked past the pediatric recovery wing. Through the glass, little Thoko raised a single hand like a sun salutation and beamed when she saw him. She still had an IV in her arm, but her hair was braided neatly in rows, and she looked proud of it.
Ilya paused at the door, nodded deeply like she was a queen, and whispered, "Her Royal Highness, Princess of Resilience."
Thoko giggled, mouthed "goofy", and waved again.
He passed the psych ward next. As he neared Room 6, a man with bandaged wrists sat up in bed.
"Hey…" the man muttered, voice hoarse. "You're the one from the night shift, right?"
Ilya nodded without slowing his pace. "Still me."
"You always this quiet?"
"Only when I'm awake."
That got a weak chuckle. The man's face folded into something that could've been a smile. Then Ilya added, softer now, "You sleep any better?"
The man shrugged. "Don't really want to."
Ilya stopped walking.
He looked at the man, looked at the cheap plastic crucifix on the wall, then back at the man. "Yeah. I get that."
A moment passed. Then two.
"You want the blanket changed?"
"…Yeah. That'd be nice."
He walked in and did just that—no more words, just the slow tender rhythm of a man who had made peace with being needed, but not noticed.
***
When he got back to the nurses' station, his shift had twelve minutes left. He didn't check his watch—he just knew.
He sat down on the edge of a desk, ignoring the flashing lights of unanswered files and the beeping from ICU. He reached for his small worn-out book tucked into his jacket. It was an anthology of Zambian folklore.
He opened a random page.
"In every forest lies another forest inside it, where only spirits go to grieve. They are the parts of the land we pretend not to see. The quiet spaces. The crooked trees. The empty places behind the laughter."
The last five minutes of Ilya's shift passed like fog drifting over still water.
The silence was therapeutic.
But silence, like everything else, had a time limit.
His phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen and saw the lock screen flooded with notifications—Group Chat: Pain Olympics™. Julian had renamed the group for the third time this week.
He sighed. Then finally unlocked the phone.
The messages had started innocently enough, about twenty minutes ago.
[Julian]: "Yoooo you degenerates better not be late tonight. I got plans"
[Anselm]: "Plans? Why do I feel like your plans are going to lower my life expectancy?"
[Julian]: "Lower your virginity too if you're not careful."
[Anselm]: "...what does that even mean?"
[Julian]: "Don't worry about it. Just bring your self-righteous forehead and a bag of snacks."
[Eric]: "I swear if this is like last time and you end up shirtless with a speaker and a machete, I'm leaving early."
[Julian]: "It was performance art, Eric. You of all people should understand."
[Anselm]: "Seriously, what's the plan? I don't want to come all the way there for another 'spiritual group hug with pizza' situation."
[Julian]: "You say that now but you were the first to cry last time. Don't act new."
Then Ilya scrolled to the last string of texts. Julian, of course, couldn't help himself.
[Julian]: "Also Ilya's probably reading this late with his big 'I was raised by ghosts in the mountains' energy."
[Julian]: "Bet he's gonna show up silently like a shadow monk and not say a damn word until 2am."
[Julian]: "Still love you tho, Shaman Grandpa."
Ilya stared at the screen.
A pause. Then, he gave the faintest of chuckles—a whisper of breath through his nose.
He didn't reply. He never did.
He just locked the phone and tucked it into his coat.
As he stepped out into the hospital's parking lot, the streetlights had already begun to flicker on, casting long amber shadows across the pavement. The city was shifting again. People were heading home. Or pretending to.
Ilya walked toward the bus stop just down the road, the warmth of the folklore still lingering in his chest.
'The spirits live in the parts we pretend not to see.'
And yet here he was—walking straight toward them.
Straight toward his friends.
Toward Julian's house.
Toward the thing none of them knew was coming.