Lily

--- *LILY* *Chapter 1: The Night It All Ended* The alarm on her phone buzzed at 6:47 PM. Lily Roland didn’t need it. Her body already knew. Seventeen years of waking up at the same time had trained her circadian rhythm better than any clock. She rolled over in the dark studio apartment, pulled her black hair into a messy bun, and stared at the ceiling for exactly thirty seconds. That was her rule. Thirty seconds to be human. To remember she had a name, not just a job title. Then she got up. By 7:30 PM she was in scrubs. Navy blue. The same color as the bruises that never left her knees when she was ten. The same color as the night her world ended. She pushed that thought away. She’d gotten good at that. The bus to St. Mercy General smelled like rain and disinfectant. Lagos traffic was merciless even at night, but Lily didn’t mind. The noise gave her an excuse not to think. St. Mercy was a 7-story building that never slept. Fluorescent lights, tired residents, and the constant beep of monitors. Lily loved it. Hospitals made sense. People came in broken and you either fixed them or you didn’t. There was no in-between. No guessing. “Nurse Roland.” Head Nurse Rina barely looked up from the chart. “You’ve got East Wing tonight. 12 patients. Two discharges, one new admission coming in an hour. VIP. Car accident. Mr. Richard.” Lily nodded. “Got it.” “Try to smile this time,” Adebayo said, not unkindly. “Families like to see that.” Lily’s mouth twitched. That was as close to a smile as she got on shift. She started rounds at 8:00 PM sharp. Room 201: Mrs. Josephine post-op, needed her pain meds. Room 203: Twins with malaria, both asleep finally. Room 207: Mr. Bello who always asked for extra jollof. She moved like a machine. Check vitals. Chart. Meds. Comfort. Repeat. That was the point of her. To be steady when everyone else was falling apart. At 11:42 PM, the new admission came in. The doors to ER burst open and chaos followed. Paramedics. A gurney. Blood on white sheets. “Male, 32, MVA, possible concussion and fractured ribs,” the paramedic shouted. “BP 100 over 70. Conscious but combative.” Lily was already there with a wheelchair, even though he wasn’t going in one. The man on the gurney had dark skin, a sharp jaw, and eyes that were furious despite the pain. Designer suit, torn. Rolex, cracked. He was yelling at the paramedic. “I don’t need a hospital. I need my lawyer and my car.” “Sir, you hit a divider at 80km/hr,” the paramedic said. “You need stitches and a CT scan.” “I said I’m fine.” Lily stepped forward. Her voice was calm. The voice she used for panicked families and drunk patients. “Mr. Richard?” He turned to her. For a second his anger flickered. “I’m Nurse Roland. I’ll be taking you to East Wing. We need to get you checked in.” “I don’t do waiting rooms,” he said. “Good,” Lily said. “Because you don’t have to. Room 402 is ready.” Something in her tone must have worked because he stopped arguing. Pain, probably. Or exhaustion. As they wheeled him upstairs, he looked at her. Really looked. “You’re new,” he said. “I’ve worked here five years,” Lily replied. “Huh. Then you just have one of those faces I’d remember.” Lily didn’t answer. Compliment deflection was another skill she’d mastered. Room 402 was private. Big window, leather chair, TV. VIP wing. His family must have called ahead. She helped him sit up, careful of his ribs. Started the routine: vitals, IV, pain assessment, wound cleaning on his forehead. “You’re very gentle for someone who looks like she hasn’t slept in days,” he said as she taped the IV. Lily paused for half a second. “Standard procedure, Mr. Richard.” “Lawrence,” he said. “Call me Lawrence.” “Lily,” she said, because it would be unprofessional not to. He winced as she cleaned the cut. “That hurts.” “I know,” she said. “Breathe.” He did. And then he asked, quieter, “You do this every night?” “Every night,” she said. “That’s brutal.” “It’s a job.” He studied her. “You don’t talk much.” “You’re supposed to rest.” A small laugh escaped him, then turned into a hiss of pain. “You’re good at this. The whole... calm thing.” “Thank you.” She finished the dressing. “Doctor will be in to review your CT in the morning. Try to sleep.” She turned to leave. “Lily.” She stopped. “You look tired,” Lawrence said. “Like, really tired. Not just shift-tired.” Her chest tightened. She hated when people saw that. “Get some rest, Mr. Richard,” she said, and walked out. The rest of the night was a blur. Meds at 1 AM. A coding patient in 208 at 2:30. Paperwork until 5. At 6:50 AM, she clocked out. The sun was coming up over Lagos, painting the sky pink and gold. Lily hated sunrises. They reminded her of endings. She drove home in silence. Studio apartment on the third floor. No plants. No photos on the walls. Just a bed, a table, and a locked drawer. She made coffee. Black. Sat down. And opened the drawer. Inside was a manila folder. Old. Edges worn. *CASE FILE: ROLAND, MICHAEL & MARTHA. DATE: 03/14/2009. STATUS: UNSOLVED.* She was ten years old in the photo paperclipped to the front. Hair in braids. Standing between her mom and dad at a charity gala. Her dad in a suit. Her mom in a green dress, laughing at something off-camera. Three days later they were dead. Home invasion. Nothing stolen. Just... gone. The police called it a robbery gone wrong. Lily knew better. She’d heard the voices. Heard her dad say “Richard” right before the shot. She’d spent the last 17 years collecting pieces. Newspaper clippings. Court documents. Names. There was one name that kept showing up in the periphery. A business partner. A donor. *Richard Corp.* She closed the file. Her hands weren’t shaking. They never did anymore. Her phone buzzed. Unknown number. Lily almost ignored it. Then it buzzed again. She picked up. “Lily Roland?” A male voice. Older. “Yes.” “This is Detective Bello. From Cold Cases. We got your email about reopening the Roland case.” Lily sat up straighter. “Yes, sir. I sent new evidence last week.” “We reviewed it. It’s... thin. But we’re willing to take another look if you come in.” Hope. Dangerous, stupid hope flared in her chest. “When?” “Tomorrow. 10 AM. And Ms. Roland? Be careful who you talk to about this.” The line went dead. Lily stared at the phone. Be careful. She set it down and stood. She needed sleep before her next shift. 12 hours. Then the police. Then maybe, finally, answers. She fell asleep to the sound of traffic and the weight of the folder under her pillow. --- *8 hours later. St. Mercy General. 7:00 PM.* Lily walked into East Wing, hair tied back, face neutral. Head Nurse Rina was waiting. “Your VIP is awake and asking for you specifically. Said no one else touches his IV.” Lily frowned. “That’s not protocol.” “I know,” Adebayo said. “But his family donated the new MRI machine. So.” Lily sighed and walked to Room 402. Lawrence was sitting up in bed, one arm in a sling, the other holding a coffee. Two coffees, actually. He saw her and held one out. “You look like you need this more than me,” he said. Black coffee. Exactly how she drank it. Lily stared at the cup. Then at him. For the first time in 17 years, she didn’t know what to say. * ---