Kiara
Alfred and I headed toward the house, his pace confident, while I hung back a little, still taking in how big everything looked up close. The glass in front of us worked like a mirror; we were just two shadows about to disappear inside something huge.
He unlocked the door and pushed it open. Warm light spilled out into the night. We'd barely stepped inside when a blur came flying at us from the living room.
"Brother Al!" A kid—he looked about ten—charged Alfred, coming to a sharp stop right in front of him. Alfred bent down, ready to catch him, but the boy froze.
He looked from Alfred to me. All the excitement drained from his face so fast it made me wince. That had to be Dillon.
"What's wrong, champ?" Alfred asked, crouched at his level. "You nearly tackled me a second ago."
Dillon didn't say anything. He just stared at me, eyes sharp—too sharp for a ten-year-old. His jaw set. Then he took a step back, then another, and bolted for the stairs without a word.
"Dillon—" Alfred called after him, but the kid was halfway up. On the staircase, he squeezed past someone coming down—taller, older.
A teenager—seventeen, eighteen, maybe. Dark brown hair, completely different from Alfred's black hair, fell onto his forehead. His green eyes studied me, quiet and curious.
That must be Blake.
He didn't rush. No smile, no frown. Just this steady, measuring look.
"What's with the lady?" Blake said, leaning against the railing.
Alfred didn't miss a beat. He reached back, took my hand—almost startled me—and said, "She's the new nurse." His grip was steady, not forceful, but clear. He wasn't hiding anything.
We walked past Blake. I could feel his stare on our backs: not hostile, not welcoming either—just watchful. Up close, Blake looked like any other teenage boy. Handsome, in a quiet way. But the way he didn't move, how calm he was—it felt older than his face.
Alfred didn't say anything until we'd reached the end of the hall. He stopped at a white door.
"This is my mother's room," he said, something in his voice softer now. "Ready?"
I nodded. He let go of my hand and opened the door.
Silence. Except for the soft beep and hum of machines. The air smelled clean, almost like a hospital. Mrs. Winters lay on a big bed, headboard tall and elegant. White sheets pulled to her waist, thin arms resting neatly at her sides. She looked peaceful—almost too peaceful.
Her chest rose and fell—she was breathing on her own through a nasal cannula. There was an IV in her arm, a monitor tracking her heartbeat, lines rising and falling in green. She wasn't hooked up to a ventilator. A suction unit and portable feeding pump stood nearby, discreet but impossible to miss.
Alive, but not really here. Just breathing, quiet and still.
The room was simple: a gray couch, a water dispenser, a cabinet full of supplies. Bookshelf packed with both novels and medical journals. Nothing flashy or dramatic—just a space balanced between home and hospital.
Alfred walked to her side and kissed her forehead. He slipped his hand into hers. "Mother," he murmured, his voice gentle in a way I hadn't heard before, "I found someone new to take care of you."
He glanced at me and then back at her. "I think you'll like her. She's capable."
He smoothed her blanket, careful. Another kiss. Then he straightened up and turned to me—back to business.
"I'll walk you through everything." Now his tone was professional, matter-of-fact.
"She needs full hygiene care three times a day—morning, afternoon, and evening. Bed baths with warm water and antiseptic. Oral care every four hours to keep infections away."
I nodded, letting it all sink in.
"Reposition her every two hours to stop pressure sores. Cushions are in the cabinet. Check her vitals morning and evening—blood pressure, heart rate, oxygen. Write it all down."
He picked up the feeding pump. "She eats through a PEG tube. The formula schedule's right here." He handed me a clipboard. "Flush before and after feeding. Don't let it clog."
He paused.
"If you see signs of infection, weird movements, fever, changes in breathing—call me right away."
His voice was steady, control clear. But when he looked at his mother, something in him softened.
"She likes music sometimes," he said quietly. "Or maybe it's just me who wants to believe that."
"I get it," I said.
Alfred nodded. "We'll talk about your salary tomorrow." He sounded practical, not cold. Just sorting out logistics. But honestly, after seeing him with his mom, money wasn't even on my mind.
"I don't mind," I said, softer. "Thank you for… everything."
He actually smiled—just a little. "No. Thank you."
We stepped back into the hall. He pressed a button on the wall—something clicked. "Door locks automatically," he explained. "Tomorrow I'll add your fingerprint. After that, it opens for you."
He led me to the next door. "This is your room." Inside, everything was neat, soft colors, the bed made up, a desk waiting. Clean, comfortable, ready.
"You can move your things in from my car tomorrow, if that's okay," he said, a little more formal now.
"That's fine," I said. "Really, thank you again."
He met my eye. "Goodnight, Kiara." Then he slipped into the room across from his mother's—his own.
Silence settled back over the hallway. I stepped inside my new room and closed the door behind me, as quietly as I could.
The house felt strangely still. Beautiful, but complicated. And somehow, this odd, quiet place was mine now. My new home.