I canceled that slot.
That afternoon, an old man in black walked in and sat outside Consultation Room 1.
He said he booked every day, but never got called.
The next day, the doctor in Room 1 took sick leave.
He said someone had whispered three words in his ear while he slept:
"It's my turn."
----
Does your hospital's booking system have one too?
It's not at the front, nor hidden at the back. It sits quietly where it belongs, always followed by a green "Booked" tag. Never showing "Consulted," never turning gray as "Completed." Every morning when you boot up your computer, it's there—like a default desktop wallpaper. You don't look at it specifically, but your peripheral vision knows it's there. City Third Hospital Community Clinic, booking system, Surgery Slot 1. Always booked. Never anyone comes.
I couldn't hold back.
Not the kind of restlessness that wakes you at midnight. Just a Wednesday afternoon—the system froze, I refreshed, and while organizing tomorrow's slots, my hand slipped and included Slot 1. A red window popped up: "This slot is already booked. Force cancel?" I stared at that red window for about seven seconds. At three seconds, I mumbled "forget it" but didn't move my finger. At five seconds, I found a reason—no consultation record ever came from that slot anyway, what's the point? At seven seconds, I clicked "Yes."
The page refreshed. Slot 1 turned from green to white, followed by a crisp "Available."
Whole thing took less than twenty seconds. I forgot about it. At 4:30 PM, I carried my thermos to get hot water. Fluorescent lights hummed in the hallway. The tile floor had just been mopped, reflecting bright white. Turning the corner by the pharmacy, my peripheral vision caught someone sitting on the surgery waiting area bench.
I didn't know him. But I knew immediately he belonged there. He wore an old black cotton jacket, buttons done up to the top, collar raised covering half his neck. His hair was white, cut short like a light dusting of snow. He wasn't looking at his phone, newspaper, or the number display screen. He just sat, hands on his knees, palms down, fingertips pointing straight at Surgery Room 1's door.
As I walked past, he looked up and met my eyes.
He looked ordinary. The kind of old man you'd see at the market, bus stop, or on a park bench. His eyes were slightly cloudy, with faint bags under them. He glanced at me, then turned back to the door. I'd already passed him when something made me stop and turn around.
"What department did you book?"
He turned his head slowly, gently. "Slot 1."
I said "Wait a moment" and walked back to the nurse station. Slot 1 was white. It said "Available." I refreshed. Available. Refreshed again. Available. I stood and walked back to him, keeping my tone casual like talking to any patient: "Sir, are you sure? No one booked Slot 1 this afternoon."
He smiled. Not a creepy smile—just the kind of smile when someone's talking past you, and they're too tired to argue, so they let it go. "I book every day. Eight AM sharp. That Slot 1 in the system—it's mine."
Water sloshed in my thermos, splashing two drops on the back of my hand. Hot.
"You... booked it before? When?"
"A long time ago." He said. He lifted his hands from his knees, slowly pushing himself up using the bench armrest. The cuffs of his black jacket were shiny from wear, showing a layer of gray-white fleece inside. "I book every day. Never get called. The system always says 'Booked,' but the display never calls my name. Today you canceled it, so I came to see."
He stood half a head shorter than me, chin slightly raised as he spoke. Fluorescent light from above cast two small shadows under his eyes. I didn't dare let him into the consultation room. I didn't dare say "Why don't you try booking again?" I just stood there, watching him turn around and slowly walk down the hallway. He paused at the pharmacy corner—not looking back, just pausing—then turned the corner. The faint scrape of his slippers on the tiles faded away: *shhh—shhh—*.
I returned to the nurse station and marked Slot 1 as "Booked" again. System prompt: "Operation successful." I stared at that green text for about a minute, then closed the interface.
That night I worked the late shift until eight. Just before finishing, Dr. Wang from surgery came out of the consultation room and set a half-finished pack of hydrotalcite tablets on my desk. "That old man in black—you know him?"
"No. Why?"
"Nothing." Dr. Wang rubbed his face. He'd done a full day of clinics, dark circles under his eyes. "He sat outside my door all afternoon. Didn't book, didn't come in. I went out for a bathroom break, saw him sitting there, asked if he wanted to be seen. He said no, he was waiting for Slot 1. I said I'm Slot 1. He looked at me and said 'You're not.'"
"And then?"
"Then I said 'Wait as you like' and went back in." Dr. Wang took off his white coat and slung it over his arm. "When did he leave?"
"Around 4:30."
"Oh." Dr. Wang nodded, then paused at the door. "I'm taking tomorrow off—tell Lao Liu."
"Okay."
A gust of night wind blew in as he left, cool and sharp.
The next morning when I arrived, Surgery Room 1's door was closed. Lao Liu sat at the nurse station eating steamed buns, pointed at the door when he saw me: "Dr. Wang called in sick."
"What's wrong?"
"Don't know." Lao Liu stuffed the last bun into his mouth, speaking through crumbs. "Called me around six this morning, said he didn't sleep well last night, dizzy, can't make it. Asked me to cover."
I said nothing. Opened the system—Slot 1 still showed green "Booked." I arranged the day's slots. Lao Liu would cover Dr. Wang, starting from Slot 2.
During lunch, I sent Dr. Wang a WeChat: "How are you? Is it serious?"
He replied after about forty minutes. Just one line: "Last night when I was sleeping, someone whispered three words in my ear."
I waited for more. Nothing. Sent a question mark. The screen showed "Typing..." for a long time, then came: "It's my turn."
I flipped my phone face down on the table. The cafeteria TV played noon news, the anchor's voice flat. I stared at my half-eaten tomato egg noodles, chopsticks resting on the bowl edge. Xiao Zhou from the pharmacy sat next to me, glanced at me: "Why's your face so white?"
"Nothing." I flipped my phone back over and read those three words again. "It's my turn." Dr. Wang didn't reply further. I typed "What does that mean? Who said it?" then deleted it. Typed "Are you okay?" deleted that too. Sent nothing.
That afternoon, Lao Liu was on clinic duty. Around 1:50, he called me: "Xiao Song, open Slot 1."
"What's up?"
"System just popped a message—Slot 1 has a pending appointment. I can't access it. Come take a look."
I walked over to his screen. In the booking system, Slot 1 showed "Booked," but the green tag was flashing. Not the normal system refresh blink—slow, rhythmic, like breathing. I logged in with admin credentials and opened Slot 1's details. Patient name: blank. ID number: blank. Phone number: blank. Only the appointment time field had a date: today.
"Can you cancel it?" Lao Liu asked.
"I'll try." As my cursor hovered over "Cancel Appointment," I paused. I remembered the old man in the black jacket from yesterday. "I book every day." "Today you canceled it, so I came to see." If I canceled again, would he come back? What if I clicked "Confirm"? If Slot 1 never had a patient, then who was this slot reserved for?
"Xiao Song?"
"Huh." I snapped back and closed the window. "Can't do it—probably a system bug. Ignore it for now, start calling from Slot 2."
Lao Liu gave me a look but said nothing.
At 3:20, when the number display jumped to Slot 5, that familiar slipper-scrape sound came from down the hallway. I didn't look up. I knew who it was. The sound dragged from the pharmacy corner, not fast, not slow—paused at the waiting area, then turned toward surgery. From the reflection on my computer screen, I saw a black shadow sit on the bench. Same spot as yesterday. Facing Room 1's door. Room 1's light was off. The door closed. Dr. Wang's name was taped on it, with Lao Liu's handwritten "Closed for Consultation" note below.
He was back. I stood and walked over—this time without my thermos.
"Sir."
He looked up. Those slightly cloudy eyes—his bags seemed deeper than yesterday. "Slot 1 isn't working today?"
"The doctor's on leave."
"I know." He said. "He didn't sleep well last night."
I didn't know how to respond. I stood in front of him, phone in my nurse uniform pocket, screen showing those three words Dr. Wang sent: "It's my turn." My neck felt tight—the kind where you know no one's behind you, but you still want to look.
"Sir," I said, "if you're feeling unwell, why not book another slot today? Dr. Liu is in Room 2."
He shook his head. "I book Slot 1." He spoke slowly, each word clear. "Only Slot 1. Couldn't get it before, so I waited outside. Every day. Waited for years. Finally got it yesterday, and the doctor wasn't there."
"Yesterday... you didn't come in yesterday."
"I did." He turned to look at the closed door. "I came in. Last night."
I don't remember walking back to the nurse station. Only remember sitting down with numb fingers. I reopened the booking system and checked Slot 1's history. System only keeps three months. Every day at 8:03 AM, an appointment record generated—patient name blank, ID blank, contact blank. Status always "Booked." Never "Consulted." Never "Completed." I scrolled up to three months ago—last record was 8:03 AM that day. Before that, system showed "No more data available."
I tried different search terms: "black jacket," "elderly male," "unbooked waiting." Nothing. Community clinic surveillance only keeps seven days. I pulled up yesterday's footage—surgery waiting area camera, 4-5 PM. The bench was empty. From start to finish, empty. But I saw him sitting there. I saw him look up at me, smile, stand and walk out. Nothing on the video.
I closed the monitor, stood, and walked to the waiting area. He was still sitting there. Fluorescent light caught his gray hair and the collar of his old black jacket. I stood about a step away. He turned his head toward me.
"You can see me."
Not a question.
I said: "Who are you?"
He didn't answer. He reached into his jacket's inner pocket and slowly pulled out something. Folded square, paper yellowed and brittle, edges frayed. He handed it to me. I took it and unfolded it. A medical record cover. Old style from City Third Hospital Community Clinic—blue print, handwritten number at the bottom. Last three digits: 001. In the patient name field, a name was written in ink. Most of it blurred from water damage, only the last character barely legible. A "Wang" character.
"Whose is this?"
"Go ask your Dr. Wang." He said. "Ask him if he remembers—twenty years ago, his first night shift, what patient did he see?"
I folded the record cover and offered it back. He didn't take it. "Keep it." He said. "I don't need it anymore."
He stood up. This time he didn't walk toward the pharmacy. He turned and walked toward Surgery Room 1. Stopped at the door. It was locked. He reached for the handle—and without apparent effort, the door opened. Inside was pitch black, no lights, curtains drawn. He walked in, closing the door behind him.
I stood frozen. The number display beeped: "Patient 6, please proceed to Surgery Room 2." A young mother walked past me holding a child's hand, the child clutching a booking slip. Neither looked toward Room 1. Fluorescent lights hummed. Tile floor reflected light. Everything so normal it made me want to gag.
I wasn't on night duty that night. But I didn't leave. I sat at the nurse station, staring at the booking system interface. At 7:35, Slot 1's status changed. From "Booked" to "Consulted." I stared at those three words for a long time. At 8:02, status changed again. "Completed." I opened the details. Patient name still blank. But the notes field had a new line—system log auto-generated: "Patient has left. Medical advice: None."
I turned off the computer. Half the hallway lights were off, only emergency lights glowing green. As I passed Surgery Room 1, the door was closed. No light under the gap. Lao Liu's "Closed for Consultation" note was still taped to the handle. But below it, somehow, a new sheet had appeared. White A4 paper, printed. One line, Song font, size 10.
"Surgery Room 1 resumes normal consultations tomorrow. All appointments full."
I got home around ten. Turned on my phone—Dr. Wang hadn't sent any more messages. I pulled out the record cover, took a photo, and sent it to him. About ten minutes later, he replied with a voice message. I played it. Heavy breathing, then: "Where did you find this?" His voice was hoarse.
I said: "He came again this afternoon. He gave it to me."
No reply. I sent another: "He said ask you—twenty years ago, your first night shift, what patient did you see?"
Silence for a long time. Long enough I thought he wouldn't reply. Then another voice message. This time his voice was steadier, but trembling—like someone who's been cold for hours finally stepping inside.
"My first night shift," he said, "I saw an old man. Heart attack. Already gone when he arrived. That night was chaos—ER was swamped, I was alone covering surgery. The old man walked in by himself, wearing a black jacket. I examined him, diagnosed acute anterior myocardial infarction—needed immediate transfer. But all ambulances were out that night, dispatch said forty minutes minimum. I had him lie on the examination table and wait. Then... then a car crash came in, more urgent, so I took that first. When I turned back, the old man was gone. Face down on the bed, one arm outstretched, fingers pointing toward the door."
He paused. Breathing sounded heavy through the receiver.
"I was too busy. Too tired. I filled out the death record—cardiac arrest. That's it. Next day I checked the system and saw he'd booked a slot himself that night. Slot 1. System showed 'Booked,' but never consulted. I didn't think much of it. Later that slot just stayed booked. Always booked."
I said: "You never tried canceling it?"
"I did." He said. "Twice. First time after canceling, the consultation room door opened by itself that night. I thought it was wind, closed it, didn't think more. Second time after canceling, I woke up in the on-call room to find someone sitting at the foot of my bed. Dark, couldn't see the face. Just sitting there, not moving. Next day I quickly booked it back. Never touched it again."
I said nothing. Somewhere outside, a dog barked twice, then stopped.
"Xiao Song," Dr. Wang's voice came through the phone—hoarse, soft, "he went in today. That consultation room. He went in today."
"Yeah."
"Do you think... when he went in today, was he coming in... or going out?"
I hung up. Outside the window, most of the opposite building's lights were off. My phone screen reflected on my face, casting my shadow on the window glass—blurry. I glanced at that shadow. It didn't move. I stood to pour water, passing the full-length mirror. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something. The person in the mirror wore pajamas, hair messy. I walked past and back, never looking directly at it. But I could feel—a darker patch in the mirror's direction, slightly darker than where I stood. Not obvious. The kind you notice in peripheral vision, then look directly and see nothing.
I lay in bed, pulling the blanket to my chin. The ceiling light was off. A thin strip of streetlight leaked through the curtain gap, landing on the opposite wall. I thought about the old man visiting Dr. Wang last night. "It's my turn." What about me? I canceled that slot. He gave me that record cover today. What did that mean?
My phone lit up. Dr. Wang sent another message. I read it, didn't reply. It said: "What was his name?"
The name on the record cover—the last character was "Wang." The earlier characters were blurred. I zoomed in on the photo, character by character. First character looked like "Zhang," or maybe "Li." Second completely illegible. Third—the "Wang"—clear as day, like retraced with a ballpoint pen.
But then I remembered—that field wasn't patient name. It was family member name. Patient name was at the top, another line, even fainter but still visible. I spelled it out character by character. First character: "Song."
My surname is Song.
I flipped my phone over, screen down on the nightstand. Another dog barked outside. Then silence. Deep silence. So quiet I heard my own heartbeat—thump, thump, thump—like the green "Booked" tag flashing on the display. I closed my eyes. In the darkness, I heard a sound. From my bedroom door. Very soft. Like slippers scraping on floorboards. *Shhh—shhh—* approaching.
It stopped at my bedside.
I didn't open my eyes.
It stood there. About ten seconds. Then the sound again. Receding. *Shhh—shhh—* back toward the door. Then the doorknob turning. Then the door closing. *Click.*
I opened my eyes. The bedroom door was closed. The streetlight strip still on the wall. Nothing had changed. But under my flipped phone on the nightstand, there was a piece of paper. I didn't know how it got there. I hadn't turned on the light, hadn't gotten up, phone stayed flipped. The paper was square, edges frayed. I reached for it, reading by the streetlight.
It was the record cover. But the "Patient Name" field I'd seen earlier—those blurred ink strokes had reappeared, clear and sharp, stroke by stroke. Three characters in the patient name field. First: "Song." Second: "Xiao." Third: "Qing."
Song Xiaoqing. My name.
I froze. Fingertips pressing the yellowed paper—cold, like just taken from a refrigerator. I suddenly understood why the old man gave me this paper. Twenty years ago, the old man in the black jacket who visited Dr. Wang's night shift—he booked Slot 1 that night. The slot that always showed "Booked" in the system. For twenty years, he booked every day. Never got called. Yesterday I canceled that slot, and he finally came in. He entered Room 1. Then he came out. But when he came out, he had something extra. A record cover with my name on it.
He'd been in my room tonight. Stood by my bed for a while. Then he left. But he left this paper. That person from twenty years ago—the old man in the black jacket who walked into surgery night shift—he booked Slot 1. Waited all night. Dr. Wang forgot to transfer him. He lay face down on the examination table, arm outstretched, pointing toward the door. He wasn't pointing at the door. He was pointing toward the nurse station. Toward the person who would sit at that computer, twenty years later, and with one click cancel his slot.
I lay in bed holding the record cover until dawn. Outside the window, the sky lightened—first gray-blue, then a hint of pink, then brightening. Streetlights turned off. Curtains opened one by one in the opposite building. The world returned to normal. I folded the paper, put it in the nightstand drawer, closed it.
On my way to work, I bought a cup of hot soybean milk. The vendor greeted me: "Early today."
I said "Yeah."
At the clinic, I changed into my nurse uniform and turned on the computer. The booking system popped up. I automatically checked Slot 1 first. Green "Booked." Followed by "Consulted." Then "Completed." I opened the details. Patient name still blank. But as I hovered the mouse over it, a new line appeared in the notes—not auto-generated. Hand-typed. Song font. Size 10.
"See you tomorrow."
I moved the mouse away. The window wouldn't close. Clicked again—still wouldn't close. A notification popped up in the bottom right: "You have a new pending appointment." I opened it. Appointment time: tomorrow. Patient name: Song Xiaoqing. Department: Surgery. Slot: 1. Status: Pending Confirmation.
I stared at those words. My soybean milk had gone cold, a thin skin forming on the surface. Down the hallway came that familiar *shhh—shhh—* sound. Approaching. I looked up. On the waiting area bench, an old man in a black jacket sat facing Room 1's door. Fluorescent lights hummed above him. He didn't look at me. But he raised one hand, slowly, and waved in my direction.
Next to Slot 1's "Pending Confirmation," a countdown appeared. 24:00:00. I stood up. The hem of my nurse uniform caught the table edge, knocking over the soybean milk. Brown liquid spilled down the table, drop by drop onto the tiles. *Tap. Tap. Tap.* Like someone knocking.
I walked to the waiting area. The old man turned toward me. There was a light in his cloudy eyes—I couldn't tell if it was the fluorescent reflection or something else.
"Tomorrow." He said. "Tomorrow it's your turn."
Then he smiled. Same smile as the first time I saw him. Not creepy. Just the kind when someone's talking past you, and they're too tired to argue, so they let it go. But he didn't say anything else. He turned back, continuing to look at Room 1's door. On that door, Lao Liu's "Closed for Consultation" note was gone. The new white A4 paper remained: "Surgery Room 1 resumes normal consultations tomorrow. All appointments full."
I returned to the nurse station. The system was still open. The countdown was running. 23:59:43. 23:59:42. On the waiting area bench, the old man in black still sat. Fluorescent light caught his gray hair. He wasn't looking at me. He looked at Room 1's door, hands on his knees, fingertips pointing toward the door gap. On the nurse station screen, Slot 1's green "Booked" tag blinked rhythmically, like breathing.
I rested my hands on the keyboard. The cursor hovered between "Confirm Appointment" and "Cancel Appointment." Outside, the sky was fully bright. Nice weather today. Sunlight leaked through the blinds, streaking across the nurse station counter. I picked up my cup and took a sip. The soybean milk was ice cold. I pulled out a new pack of hydrotalcite tablets, popped one in my mouth and chewed. The number display beeped: "Patient 2, please proceed to Surgery Room 2." A middle-aged man walked past me, clutching a stack of lab results. He didn't glance at the bench as he passed.
The old man in black jacket still sat there.
The countdown still ran.
I turned off the screen. No confirmation, no cancellation. Just let it stay booked. Like the past twenty years. Like the next twenty years. I picked up my thermos and stood, walking past the waiting area to get hot water. Fluorescent lights hummed in the hallway. Tile floor reflected bright white. My peripheral vision told me—the old man sat on the bench, facing Room 1's door. He'd been sitting there since I first saw him. He'd been sitting for a long time. He'd sit for a long time more. Until the next person who cancels this slot like Dr. Wang did. Until the next person who cancels this slot like I did. Until the next person who, on some Wednesday afternoon, slips up with their mouse, hesitates for seven seconds at a red window, and clicks "Yes."
As I turned the pharmacy corner, I glanced back. The bench was empty. Fluorescent light blazed down. No one there.
But in my ear, very soft, like from far away, three words. Whispered. Like wind through a crack.
"It's your turn."
I turned back and kept walking. The hot water in my thermos burned my palm. At the end of the hallway was the pharmacy window—Xiao Zhou was organizing medicine, smiled when she saw me. "Morning."
"Morning."
I tightened the thermos lid and walked back to the nurse station. Turned on the computer. The booking system popped up. Slot 1: green "Booked." The countdown was gone. I opened the details. The patient name field—somehow, it had changed from blank to three characters. Song Xiaoqing. I stared at it for several seconds. Then I clicked "Refresh." The page flickered, reloaded. The name field was blank again. As if nothing had happened.
I stood up, setting the thermos on the table. Down the hallway, the number display beeped: "Patient 3, please proceed to Surgery Room 2." An old man carrying a CT bag stood from the waiting area and walked over slowly. Sunlight shone through the window onto his shoulders, warm. Everything was new. Everything was normal. On the waiting area bench, three or four patients sat waiting—some on phones, some dozing. No one noticed Room 1's door. It was closed. The A4 paper was still taped to it. "Surgery Room 1 resumes normal consultations tomorrow. All appointments full."
I walked over, peeled off that paper, crumpled it up, and threw it in the trash. Then I returned to the nurse station, opened the system, and found Slot 1. My cursor moved to "Cancel Appointment." I paused.
In the screen's reflection, I saw my own face. Young, not many wrinkles, faint dark circles from lack of sleep. Lips a little dry. Hair pinned behind my ears. No different from any community clinic nurse. But I thought—the me in the mirror seemed to be smiling. Mouth curved slightly upward. Not obvious. The kind you notice in peripheral vision, then look directly and see nothing.
I blinked. The me in the mirror blinked too.
Then I clicked "Yes."
System prompt: "Operation successful." Slot 1 turned white. Available. I leaned back in my chair, hands resting on the keyboard, palms down, fingertips pointing toward the screen. Sunlight streamed through the window, warming the back of my hands. Somewhere down the hallway, a child cried. Xiao Zhou hummed in the pharmacy. Fluorescent lights hummed.
Everything was perfectly normal.
I sat for a while, then stood to get hot water. Passing the waiting area, I glanced at the bench. Empty. Fluorescent light blazed down on the empty light green plastic seat. As I turned the pharmacy corner, Xiao Zhou poked her head out: "Hey, the system just popped a message—Slot 1 got booked."
I stopped.
"When?"
"8:03." Xiao Zhou checked her phone. "Just popped up."
I didn't turn back. My thermos was tightly screwed shut—I could feel the heat through the stainless steel. The window at the end of the hallway was open. A breeze blew in, carrying the June morning scent of grass and soil. It brushed the back of my neck, cool.
From far behind me, I heard a very soft *click.* Like a consultation room door opening. Or closing. I didn't look back. I just stood there, gripping the thermos, facing the morning wind.
Fluorescent lights still hummed.
Number display still beeped.
Days still went on.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow it's your turn.