The Things We Buried

Chapter2

Medical school had a way of swallowing time. Days blurred together into lectures, ward rounds, textbooks, and the constant feeling that you were always behind. My mornings started earlier than I liked. The alarm clock would usually go off, dragging me out of the little sleep I had managed to get. Some days, I stared at the ceiling for a few seconds before moving, wondering how it was possible to feel tired before the day had even started.

“Are you deaf?” Sarah’s sleepy voice would come from the other side of the room.

“Almost,” I usually replied.

Sarah was my roommate and the only person who truly understood the chaos of medical school. We shared a small apartment near campus that constantly looked like a tornado made of textbooks had passed through it. Flashcards on the table, highlighters everywhere. Coffee mugs that neither of us remembered washing. By the time we got ready and rushed out the door, the sun was barely rising.

Hospitals in the morning had a strange atmosphere. The corridors were quiet but never empty. Nurses moved quickly between wards, and the smell of antiseptic hung in the air like a permanent cloud. Clinical rotations were exhausting but strangely fascinating. I spent most of my days scribbling notes, memorizing drug names, and following residents around like shadows, hoping to absorb knowledge through observation alone.

That night, I closed my textbook with a tired sigh. Cardiac physiology was beginning to blur together. Chambers, valves, arteries, pressure gradients. My brain felt like it had reached its limit.

“Tomorrow is cardiology,” Sarah reminded me from her bed.

I groaned and buried my face in my pillow.

“Don’t remind me.”

She laughed. “You’re going to see the famous Dr. Adesemoye again.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I’m sure he’s not as scary as everyone says.”

At the time, I truly believed that.

Across the city, Daniel’s mornings followed a routine so precise it could have been measured with a stopwatch. He woke before the sun. Not because of an alarm, but because his body had learned to expect the hour. Five o’clock. Every morning.

The apartment was silent except for the faint sound of traffic far below. Daniel lived alone on the top floor of a quiet building. The space was large but almost bare, furnished with clean lines and neutral colors. There were no unnecessary decorations, no clutter. Everything had a purpose. He moved through the apartment with the quiet efficiency of someone who disliked wasted time.

Coffee brewed in the kitchen. Black. No sugar. While it cooled slightly, he reviewed a stack of patient reports he had brought home from the hospital. Imaging summaries, notes from residents. His eyes moved quickly across the pages, absorbing details with practiced precision. Medicine demanded attention; mistakes cost lives. Daniel had learned that lesson long ago.

He placed the reports neatly on the counter and walked toward a narrow cabinet beside the wall. For a moment, his hand hovered over the handle, then he opened it. Inside was a single drawer. Unlike everything else in the apartment, the drawer looked slightly disorganized. A thin brown folder rested inside. Daniel stared at it for several seconds before picking it up. The folder was worn at the edges, as if it had been opened many times in the past. Slowly, he slid a photograph out from between the papers. The image showed the hospital corridor. Two figures stood near a window, caught in a moment of conversation. The photograph had faded slightly over the years, but the memory attached to it had not. Daniel’s expression didn't change as he looked at it, but his grip on the photograph tightened slightly. After a moment, he turned it over and returned it to the folder. The drawer closed with a quiet click. Some parts of the past refused to stay buried.

Daniel exhaled slowly and turned away. He finished reviewing the final report, placed the papers neatly into his briefcase, and checked the time. It was 6:12 am, and he still had enough time to prepare for the morning lecture. Daniel had taught enough classes to know exactly what they would look like: nervous eyes, clutched notebooks. He walked up to the desk in the corner of the room and opened his laptop. The screen lit up softly, and a document appeared. Cardiology rotation—students' list. Daniel scanned the names briefly; most of them meant nothing to him, just another class, just another group of students. Then his eyes stopped, Melissa Ossai. His gaze lingered on the name longer than necessary. For a moment, the quiet apartment felt different. Daniel leaned back slightly in his chair, then a faint, almost amused smile touched the corner of his lips.

“So,” he murmured softly.

“You made it here.”

And just like that, tomorrow’s lecture became far more interesting.

*****************

There are some people you notice once and forget, and then there are the ones you begin to notice everywhere. Dr. Adesemoye had become the second kind. At first, it was accidental. A glimpse of him at the hospital, his ward coat moving quickly as junior residents followed him behind like satellites orbiting a planet. The faint scent of aftershave and a clean, woody cologne that lingered whenever he walked past. But lately, it felt less like a coincidence and more like gravity.

It had been five days since that moment in the corridor, five days since he had looked directly at me with those calm, unreadable eyes. Five days… and somehow I had seen him every single day. Not because I was looking for him, at least that was what I kept telling myself.

I sat at the nurses’ station, reviewing a patient’s notes, trying to concentrate on the rhythm strips in front of me, but my mind kept drifting back to him. Everyone in the hospital seemed to have a story about Dr. Adesemoye.

“He once sent a registrar out of the rounds for not knowing a basic question.”

“He hardly smiles.”

“They say he can diagnose a condition just by looking at a patient."

“They say he barely sleeps.”

I didn't know which of those things were true, but I did know one thing: whenever he entered a room, the atmosphere changed, and something about that fascinated me more than it should.

“You’re staring at that ECG like it personally offended you.” The voice startled me.

I looked up quickly, and there he was, holding a stethoscope from across the desk. For a moment, my brain stopped working. He unsettled me in a way that only made me more curious about him.

“I… I’m reviewing the rhythm,” I said quickly.

“What do you see?” His eyes dropped to the ECG in front of me.

I glanced down again. “ST elevation… leads II, III, and aVF.”

Silence followed, but not the uncomfortable kind, then he pulled a chair beside me, and the movement caught me off guard. He leaned forward slightly, and I could feel the warmth of his breath; his beard grazed my shoulders.

“You're observant,” he said.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. I stole a glance at him, and I could see the faint crease between his brows when he concentrated. His eyes shifted towards me, and I quickly looked away.

“You think too much,” he said suddenly.

“You hesitate before answering questions.”

I blinked. I waited. Unsure of how to respond. Something about the way he said it sounded personal, like it came from experience.

“I’m sorry, sir, I don't want to be wrong.”

A group of students walked past us, and I suddenly became aware that several people were looking in our direction. Watching. Whispering. I shifted slightly in my chair.

“You're uncomfortable.”

“People are staring.”

He followed my gaze briefly, then leaned back in his chair. He didn't seem to care. Instead, he studied me again with that same intense focus that always made me feel like he could see right through me. My stomach tightened. He stood up immediately.

“You're rotating in cardiology for how long?”

“Two more weeks,” I said while adjusting my glasses.

He reached for a file from underneath the desk and handed it over to me.

“Melissa.”

It was the first time he said my name without adding “Miss”. I looked at him, and a faint smile appeared on his lips.

“I want you to review this case tonight.”

He turned and began walking towards the exit. Then he stopped, just for a second. Without looking back, he said something that made my breath catch.

“Come to my office tomorrow at 7 o'clock.”

“Let’s see if you impress me again,” he said while swinging his stethoscope as he walked away.

I sat there for a long time after he disappeared down the corridor. The hospital noise slowly returned around me, but my mind was somewhere else, somewhere between confusion and curiosity. Finally, I looked down at the file in my hands, and that was when I noticed a small handwritten note inside the cover. I leaned closer because beneath the patient's diagnosis, Dr. Adesemoye had written something else.

“Be careful, Melissa.’

I felt a chill run down my spine. Below the warning was one final sentence.

“This case ruined a doctor's career.”