The Bed That Stayed Made

Unknown

We begin, as is the custom, with the census. Not the kind marked by clipboards and chatter, but the one conducted in low voices, under the hush of descending night. On the ward at Hollow Hill, a row of beds stands, and one—always one—refuses to be tallied. No alarms, of course. No crash of footsteps, no red light blinking its dismay. Just the numbers, dull and blunt, not quite adding as they should. I take the clipboard, feel the balancing of routine, and mark the missing as if it were the most ordinary thing. It has happened before here, after all. The first time one assumes surprise. The second, suspicion. After a third occurrence, something quieter settles in. One does not, after all, contest the arithmetic of such places for long.

Unknown

There’s a ritual to finding a bed unoccupied, especially if the sheets are still warm, seams crisp, pillow undented save for some fleeting shape lost in the undulations of the night. The chart, always poised at the foot, claims with bureaucratic confidence that the patient is sleeping. Even as the air holds the faintest residue of presence, the advice persists—never wake a sleeper in Hollow Hill. I remember, perhaps too well, the silence that follows waking someone who is meant to be left undisturbed. It’s not fear; it’s an old courtesy. Some sleepers should remain in their appointed dreams, at least until the count resets.

Unknown

What draws the eye, inevitably, is the names on the board at the nurses’ station. Two identical, cleverly spaced, as though proximity might cancel the duplication. One blotted out, not hurriedly, but with purpose—a different hand, an older hesitation. Records rarely duplicate by accident. They multiply when memory slips or when the boundaries of self and other are strained. Here, identity is merely another symptom, flaring and fading on the whiteboards of the lost. I sometimes wonder—who carries the pen that crosses out such names? Whose job is it to correct what the census refuses?

Unknown

The nurse—yes, the same who always walks too quietly—comes to me and recounts her brief exchange with the missing patient. She remembers tone, cadence, some manner of greeting, but the face slips away, lost in the aqueous light just beyond the ward’s edge. That brings a pause, and even I must measure my tone. I assure her, gently, that finishing her shift is best. No questions need be asked tonight. Some absences are best left unnamed until morning accounts for them in its own manner.

Unknown

There’s the matter of the chart, of course. Vitals brought in as though drawn from the ether—pulse, breath, numbers sliding neatly into columns—yet every machine on the ward reports nothing. The handwriting, fine but confident, is known to none of the staff. Still, the ceremony must be observed, so I sign my name below, neither affirming nor questioning, only recording—a tradition that remains, even if its author was lost years ago. Habit maintains the order, as ever.

Unknown

Security walks the corridors, keys jangling, even if they’d deny it later. No doors ajar, no footprints shining in the dust, no disturbance in the camera’s looping gaze. Playback reveals what’s expected: the bed rocks, the sheets crease, but always—always—it appears occupied. No evidence leaves, because nothing truly does. The rational mind insists there’s a gap to be filled, a record to reconcile. But in Hollow Hill, absence has a peculiar way of remaining present. I mention as much, not loudly, but as fact. The patient, I suggest, is “still here” in all the ways that matter on this ward.

Unknown

Night deepens, and the staff grow uneasy amid the hush. They hear the long sigh of air from the empty bed, steady as breath yet belonging to no one in sight. I’ve listened for years to that particular sound: the pressing of linens by an invisible weight, the quick smoothing when anyone turns to look. Old buildings don’t just remember their losses; they develop responses, quirks—habits, yes. It does no good to scold the architecture for accommodating what’s left behind.

Unknown

By morning, someone—some thing—has done the administrative work. The chart flashes a new name, admissions paperwork prints crisp and unsullied, the ambiguity evaporates. The empty space is filled efficiently, with no trace of the prior confusion. I offer thanks to Admissions, knowing they will not reply. Hollow Hill abhors a vacuum. Systems hurry to fill what’s gone missing, lest the silence grow too expectant.

Unknown

The new patient settles in, but their sleep brings other disquiet. They mumble of linen that suffocates, dreams of layers that weigh until name and body are indistinguishable. Their own name begins to nudge out its predecessor’s on the logs, assuming the old responsibilities as if nothing untoward had transpired. Institutions crave narrative, after all. Continuity is prized, because to vanish outright is simply not permitted by the system’s gentle, unblinking enforcement.

Unknown

For every correction, there is a ripple. The nurse—yes, the same—raises a note, questioning in soft, tired tones the oddity in record. Later, her own name is gone from the shift roster, replaced with a ghosting absence. I regard this as administrative drift—not quite censure, never punishment, just the balancing that follows any disturbance. Years ago, I worked alongside a nurse no record now admits to have existed. It’s a familiar phenomenon here, and one best accepted rather than resisted, if one hopes to persist.