Cold and Broken

I walk with my hands shoved deep into my coat pockets, my breath fogging in the cold evening air. The sky's gone that murky blue-gray that means night is already here, even if the streetlamps haven't caught up yet. The city around me is quiet, tucked into its holiday hush. People are probably home with families, sipping hot drinks, laughing at dumb holiday specials.

Me? I'm just walking slowly, one foot after the other, toward the hospital.

I'm still tired from my morning shift. My shoulders ache, and there's a dull pressure behind my eyes that's been there since noon. But I don't care. I need something familiar. Something soft. Something real.

When I step into the building, the warmth hits me like a wave. The faint smell of old blankets and disinfectant clings to the air. It should be depressing, but it's not. Not when mom's here.

Her room's on the third floor, down the same hallway I've memorized by heart now. I knock lightly and push the door open.