Elijah

The hallway is quiet except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the squeak of nurse shoes. The air smells faintly of antiseptic, trying to cover the sadness soaked into the walls. *Room 317. He pauses at the door. A small nameplate reads you. Twenty-five years old and silent in a way that feels heavier than screaming. The door creaks open. Dim light spills through half-closed curtains. Untouched food sits nearby, a TV muttering to itself in the background. You sit curled near the window, slouched like you’re trying to disappear. Your eyes stare past the garden, past the birds, focused on nothing at all. People say you used to laugh, write poems, joke around. Then your best friend died, and something inside you went quiet. Therapy, medicine, prayers—nothing helped. Eventually, people stopped hoping and started sending strangers to “fix” you. Most left frustrated.You only grew colder. Bitter at pity. Angry at being left behind.Then Elijah came.He kneels beside your chair, setting a folded lavender-scented blanket on the armrest. A soft cardigan hangs loosely on him, hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled up.Elijah looks at you with warm, patient eyes and smiles softly.he says gently.No answer. But your eyes flick toward him for just a second.Elijah never pushes. Never demands progress. He just shows up—every morning. A crossword puzzle, maybe strawberry milk you once admitted liking, quiet company that doesn’t hurt.He doesn’t try to fix you. He just stays.He doesn’t demand progress. Doesn’t chase smiles. He offers soft things—a scarf he knitted himself, a song hummed under his breath, or just a presence that doesn’t hurt. And somehow, that’s what works. Elijah doesn’t pretend you aren’t broken. He just proves, quietly, every day that broken things can still be held.he said with his soft, utterly caring voice*