THE PATIENT IN ROOM 13
THE SECOND PATIENT
Wednesday, October 18th – 11:30 AM
The second patient was a man named Vincent Cross.
He was fifty-seven years old, a former construction worker, admitted two weeks ago with severe paranoia and auditory hallucinations. He believed that people were following him. That his food was poisoned. That his thoughts were being broadcast to the world.
He had been living on the streets for years before a concerned citizen called the police. He had no family. No friends. No one to advocate for him.
Another ghost.
Another forgotten.
Sloane stood outside his room, her hand on the door, the voices in her head murmuring.
“He is like the others,” Marian said. “Buried. Silenced. Erased.”
“But not forgotten,” another voice added. “Not anymore. Not by you.”
“You can help him. You can remember for him.”
Sloane opened the door.
Vincent’s room was at the end of the hall, the farthest from the nurses’ station. It was larger than Greta’s room, with a window that faced the parking lot. Vincent stood at the window, his back to the door, his hands pressed against the glass.
“Vincent,” Sloane said softly.
He did not turn.
“My name is Dr. Vance. I’m a psychologist here at the hospital. I’d like to talk to you.”
He pressed his hands harder against the glass.
“They’re watching,” he said. His voice was low, raspy, like stones grinding together. “They’re always watching.”
“Who is watching, Vincent?”
“Them. The ones who took my memories. The ones who made me forget.”
“What did they make you forget?”
He turned.
His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow, his skin gray. But his eyes—his eyes were sharp. Aware. He was not as lost as the file suggested.
“My daughter,” he said. “They made me forget my daughter.”
Sloane pulled the chair to the window and sat down.
Vincent remained standing, his hands still pressed against the glass.
“Tell me about your daughter,” Sloane said.
“She was beautiful. She had her mother’s eyes. Her mother’s smile. Her mother’s laugh.”
“What was her name?”
Vincent’s face crumpled.
“I don’t remember.”
“You said they made you forget. Who are ‘they’?”
“The doctors. The ones who came before you. They said I was sick. They said my memories were lies. They gave me medicine. They put me in rooms like this. They made me forget.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because they were afraid. Afraid of the truth. Afraid of what I saw.”
“What did you see, Vincent?”
He looked at her.
His hollow eyes glistened.
“I saw the door.”
Sloane’s heart stopped.
“What door?”
“The door. The iron door. In the basement. Behind the furnace. The one that leads to the tunnel.”
“You’ve been in the tunnel?”
“Not in. Near. I saw the door. I touched it. It was warm. Alive. It spoke to me.”
“What did it say?”
“It said, ‘Remember.'”
Sloane leaned forward.
“When was this, Vincent?”
“Years ago. Before they locked me up. Before they made me forget. I was working here. At the hospital. Construction. We were renovating the basement. I found the door. I told my supervisor. He told me to forget it.”
“Did you?”
“No. I went back. At night. When no one was watching. I touched the door. I felt something inside. Something waiting.”
“What happened then?”
Vincent’s face twisted.
“The doctors came. They took me to this floor. They gave me medicine. They said I was imagining things. They said the door wasn’t real. They said my daughter wasn’t real.”
“But your daughter was real.”
“My daughter was real. I know she was real. I can feel her. In my heart. In my memories. In the pieces they didn’t steal.”
“Can you remember her name?”
Vincent closed his eyes.
His lips moved.
He whispered.
“Lily.”
The memory came unbidden.
Not from Vincent.
From the tree.
From the Watcher.
From the child.
Lily was five years old, with dark hair and dark eyes and a smile that could light up a room. She was standing in a garden, chasing butterflies, her laughter echoing through the air.
Vincent watched from a bench, his hands folded in his lap, his heart full.
He had never loved anyone as much as he loved his daughter.
Then the memory shifted.
Lily was in a hospital bed. Her face was pale. Her eyes were closed. Machines beeped. Tubes snaked from her arms. Vincent sat beside her, holding her hand.
“You’re going to be okay,” he whispered. “Daddy’s here. Daddy’s not going anywhere.”
Lily opened her eyes.
“Daddy, I’m scared.”
“Don’t be scared. I’m right here.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
The memory shifted again.
Lily was gone.
The bed was empty.
The machines were silent.
Vincent sat in the chair, his hand still reaching for hers.
He did not move.
He did not speak.
He did not breathe.
The doctors came. The nurses came. They tried to lead him away. He would not go.
He stayed in that room for three days.
And when he finally left, he left something behind.
His memory.
Not all of it. Just the parts that hurt too much to hold.
The parts that made him forget his daughter’s name.
Sloane opened her eyes.
Vincent was watching her.
“You saw her,” he said.
“I saw her.”
“Lily. My Lily.”
“Your Lily.”
“What did she look like?”
Sloane described her. The dark hair. The dark eyes. The smile. The laughter. The butterflies.
Vincent wept.
“I forgot her,” he sobbed. “I forgot my own daughter.”
“You didn’t forget her. You buried her. To protect yourself. To survive.”
“I want to remember her. I want to remember everything.”
“Then remember.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
His face contorted.
His hands pressed against the glass.
And then—his face softened.
“I remember,” he whispered. “I remember her voice. Her laugh. The way she said ‘Daddy.'”
“She loved you.”
“I loved her.”
“She still loves you.”
Vincent opened his eyes.
“How do you know?”
“Because love doesn’t die. It can be buried. It can be forgotten. But it never dies.”
Vincent turned from the window.
He walked to the chair across from Sloane and sat down.
“Help me remember more.”
“I will.”
She reached out.
He took her hand.
And she remembered for him.
The session lasted an hour.
When Sloane left Vincent’s room, he was smiling.
Not a fragile smile. A real smile.
The nurses stared.
Sloane walked to the nurses’ station.
“Vincent Cross is ready to start therapy,” she said. “I’d like to see him again tomorrow.”
The nurse nodded, speechless.
Sloane walked away.
The voices in her head were restless.
“You helped him,” Marian said. “You helped him remember.”
“But the tree is hungry,” another voice warned. “The tree fed on his memories. On his pain. On his love.”
“The tree is growing stronger.”
Sloane pressed her hand to her chest.
The warmth was still there.
But it was different now.
Hotter.
“The tree wants more,” the hungry voice whispered. “The tree wants to remember everything. Everyone. All the forgotten. All the buried. All the erased.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Sloane said. “That’s why I’m the Keeper.”
“You are the Keeper. But the tree is the master. You serve the tree. The tree does not serve you.”
“I serve the forgotten. The tree is just a tool.”
“The tree is not a tool. The tree is alive. The tree has a will. The tree is the Watcher’s heart.”
“Then I will learn to control it.”
“You cannot control it. You can only feed it.”
Sloane stopped walking.
She closed her eyes.
She reached inside herself, to the place where the tree lived, to the warmth that pulsed in her chest.
“I am the Keeper,” she said. “I hold the memories. I decide what is remembered and what is forgotten. The tree serves me. Not the other way around.”
The warmth flared.
Pain shot through her chest.
She gasped.
But she did not fall.
“You cannot command the tree,” the hungry voice said. “The tree is older than you. Stronger than you. More ancient than you can imagine.”
“I am not commanding the tree. I am asking it to trust me.”
“The tree does not trust. The tree only remembers.”
“Then it will remember that I helped it. That I fed it. That I gave it what it wanted.”
The warmth dimmed.
The pain faded.
“The tree is watching,” the hungry voice said. “The tree is waiting. The tree is patient.”
Sloane opened her eyes.
She walked to the elevator.
She had more patients to see.
More memories to uncover.
More forgotten to remember.