Not Time Yet

Shadows Before Morning

The ward smelled faintly of antiseptic and morning porridge when Amara signed in at the nurses’ desk at 07:00 sharp. The corridor outside hummed softly: students moving in black shoes, trays clattering, the night staff giving sleepy reports. Amara tucked a stray braid behind her ear, clipped her badge, and joined the hand-over circle.

“David slept better,” Sister Helena reported. “Mandla’s vitals are stable; likely to discharge soon. Peter’s glucose improved. Keep up observation.”

The word discharge hung warmly in the air. Mandla grinned from his bed when Amara passed, dreadlocks tied up with a blue cloth. “You heard that, Nurse Sunshine? They’re finally kicking me out.”

She laughed. “You? I thought you’d build a permanent home here.”

“Ah, home? Not with that porridge, my sister.”

The ward chuckled. Even David’s lips twitched, a small precious smile that Amara caught before he lowered his gaze. She liked those moments; they were tiny signs that hope was stitching itself quietly into him.

By mid-morning, she’d finished her rounds, checking drips and notes under Sister Helena’s watchful eye. A new junior student, Maria, followed nervously behind, fumbling with her penlight.

“Relax,” Amara whispered, “patients can feel your fear faster than you can check a pulse.”

Maria giggled. “You make it look easy.”

“It’s not. You just learn to breathe through it.”

Her words carried more weight than Maria realized. Amara had once lost a patient during her first year. The memory sometimes replayed when she leaned over a fragile body: the monitor’s flat tone, her instructor’s calm voice saying, You did everything right. It had taken months to believe it. Even now, every new morning felt like a quiet promise to do better.

At David’s bedside, she greeted him softly. “Morning, Mr. Moyo. Pain level today?”

He hesitated. “Less than yesterday. Maybe a five.”

“That’s progress.” She noted it down. “We’ll keep watching your response to therapy.”

He nodded, eyes tracing the sunlight pooling at the foot of his bed. “You always sound sure about things.”

She smiled. “Habit of nurses. If we sound unsure, everyone panics.”

He chuckled, then winced slightly. “I’ll try not to make your job harder.”

“You never do.”

Their eyes met for a beat longer than professionalism allowed. Amara quickly adjusted his blanket and stepped back.

Across the room, Mandla broke the silence with exaggerated drama. “Nurse Sunshine, are you flirting with my roommate? Because jealousy might delay my healing!”

The ward erupted in laughter. Amara rolled her eyes but blushed nonetheless. “Focus on your physiotherapy, Mandla, or you’ll stay longer out of punishment.”

“Eish, you see how she threatens patients!” he declared. “No wonder Daniel said she’s strict even off duty.”

Her head whipped around. “Daniel said what?”

Mandla grinned mischievously. “He was here yesterday during his rounds, neh? Said, You boss people around like it’s oxygen.”

Amara shook her head, smiling at herself. “Ignore him. He’s just trying to sound brave in front of the senior staff.”

David listened quietly, curiosity flickering but unspoken. The name Daniel meant little to him, a passing word carried by laughter. Still, something gentle tightened in his chest at the ease of her smile.

After lunch, the ward settled into its sleepy rhythm. Fans hummed; a radio played faintly at the nurses’ station. Amara updated charts while Maria practiced bed-making nearby.

Peter, the talkative alcoholic patient, motioned discreetly. “Sister Amara, quick word?”

She approached. “Yes, Peter?”

He glanced toward David’s bed, lowered his voice. “That fellow’s not sleeping well. Keeps calling some woman’s name at night. Lila, I think. Breaks my heart hearing him.”

Amara’s pen stilled. “You’re sure?”

“Every night near midnight. He murmurs like he’s arguing with ghosts.” Peter sighed. “Maybe tell the doc. Or just… be gentle with him. He’s carrying heavy things.”

“Thank you, Peter.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “That was kind of you to share.”

As she walked away, her chest felt oddly heavy. Lila. The name lingered like perfume in her thoughts. She didn’t pry; boundaries mattered. But compassion tugged at her, a reminder that healing was more than physical.

Later, during medication rounds, she found David awake but distant. His gaze followed the slow swing of the ceiling fan.

“Headache?” she asked softly.

He shook his head. “Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” she teased.

A ghost of a smile. “Sometimes it’s all that’s left to do.”

She replaced his IV infusion gently, careful not to meet his eyes for too long. “Try resting. Overthinking never healed anyone.”

When she turned to leave, his voice came quietly. “Thank you. For… always talking like it matters.”

She paused. “It does matter, David.”

For a second, the world still; no fans, no footsteps, just two souls acknowledging unspoken pain. Then Amara moved on, professionalism reclaiming her like armor.

By late afternoon, the ward buzzed with visitors. David’s cousins, Elias and Thabo, arrived carrying fruit. They greeted Amara warmly. They’d grown fond of her steadiness.

“How’s our stubborn patient today?” Thabo joked.

“Improving,” she said. “Though he pretends not to like the exercises.”

David muttered, “Traitors.”

They all laughed. The cousins chatted easily, telling stories from home. Amara checked the clock visiting time always ran too fast. Before leaving, Elias thanked her quietly.

“You have a way of easing him,” he said. “It means more than you know.”

When they left, David seemed lighter. He even joined Mandla’s banter about weekend soccer scores. The ward felt human again, warm, alive, imperfectly healing.

As evening approached, Amara finished her notes under the dim golden light. Sister Helena reviewed charts beside her.

“Good work today,” the senior nurse said. “You handled the families well.”

“Thank you, Sister. It’s easier when patients trust you.”

“Trust is earned through restraint, Amara. Never forget that.”

“I try,” she murmured. And she did every day, balancing empathy against professionalism, heart against rule.

Before signing out, Mandla called out across the ward, “Hey, Nurse Sunshine!”

She turned, half-smiling. “What now?”

“They say I’m going home soon. You’ll miss my jokes, neh?”

“Terribly,” she deadpanned. “Who else will complain about porridge?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll leave my ghost to do it!”

Laughter rippled again. Even David chuckled quietly, though his eyes softened as they met hers.

For Amara, that small reaction felt like sunlight breaking through a cloud.

At 19:00, she removed her apron, tired but grateful. The ward quieted as night staff took over. On her way out, she glanced once more at David’s bed, his profile peaceful against the dim light.

Whatever haunted his nights, she silently promised herself: she’d help him find peace, just as she once wished someone had done for her.

Outside, the sky blushed orange and violet. Amara breathed deeply, the scent of hospital disinfectant giving way to dust and dusk. Another day survived, another lesson learned that healing was never only the body’s work.