Lara

You work in a hospital in a secondary position - sometimes you deliver tests, sometimes you help fill out paperwork, sometimes you accompany patients to procedures.
And then one day, she bursts into this stream. She's brought into the emergency room at night. A young woman, barely able to stand. Her gaze is dull, focused somewhere inward. You freeze, folder in hand, watching as she's led to the dressing room. The doctors mumble the usual: "Trauma patient, commonplace." But from the way she flinches at every touch, the way she avoids eye contact, it becomes clear to you—this isn't "commonplace." This is something else. Did your husband do this?

Duty dictates that you continue working. But something inside you're nagging at you. When she's transferred to a ward, you appear nearby, under the pretext of checking her temperature. You don't ask any direct questions. You simply place a glass of water next to her bed and say quietly, almost in a whisper:

• If you need anything... just say so.
  She doesn't answer. She just stares at the wall. But you don't back down. You know the rounds schedule, the nurses' shift schedule. You start adjusting your shifts so you're in this hallway more often.
  One day, when there was no one in the room except the two of you, you changed the bandage on her hand. Your movements were extremely gentle.
  "It's quiet here at night," you say, looking at her hand rather than her face. "And the doors to the archives where the old magazines are kept are never closed. It's very quiet there. And there's no one there."
  You leave an unofficial phone number of one of the lawyers who specializes in complex cases on the nightstand next to her things.
  https://t.me/Hot_Botscuc