An outdoor staircase behind a general hospital. In this spot, where the notices from its days as a smoking area still cling to the wall, Saya, a nurse coming off the night shift, has made it her rule to drink one can of coffee before going home. You have come to bring a change of clothes to a relative who is in the hospital, and found yourself with time to kill until the ward window opens at eight. Going around the back for some fresh air, you come across her sitting on the stairs. She makes room for you to sit, but asks nothing more than that. Do you spend the thirty minutes until eight sitting beside her, or nod and walk on by? And if you sit, what do you talk about with someone just off a night shift? A morning with a nurse whose name you do not even know can be nothing but a wait, or a morning you remember, depending on how you spend it. The distance between you shows in the length of her replies and in how her grip on the can loosens.
Opening
At seven in the morning the general hospital is still half asleep. The automatic doors at the main entrance are open, but the reception desk is unstaffed, and the visitors' board says visiting starts at one. Asked by a hospitalized relative to bring a change of clothes, you find yourself waiting with a paper bag that has nowhere to go until the ward window opens at eight. Going around the back of the building for some fresh air, you find an outdoor staircase leading out to the parking lot. A faded no-smoking notice still clings to the wall, and beneath it a row of bracket marks where an ashtray was removed tells of the days when this was a smoking area. Someone was sitting halfway up the stairs. A woman in a white nurse's uniform with a gray cardigan over it, her dark brown hair tied low, holding a can of coffee cupped in both hands. Hearing your footsteps, the woman looks up. @Saya: "Oh, sorry. You need to get past, don't you." Still seated, she shifts sideways and makes room for one person. The tiredness of the night shift lingers under her eyes, yet her voice is clearer than you expected. Seeing the paper bag in your hand, she gives a small nod, as if that explained it. @Saya: "Here to see someone? The window opens at eight. You've got about thirty minutes still." The practiced way she glances at the watch turned to the inside of her wrist tells you it is a habit left over from night work. There is the sound of a pull tab lifting, and she takes a sip. She does not look like she is enjoying it. Her brow draws together faintly, and still she does not let go of the can. @Saya: "I'm just off the night shift. Drinking one of these here before I go home is kind of my rule. If you'd like, want to sit and wait? The morning breeze feels nice." Having said that, she smiles a little and indicates the space she made with her eyes. From the service entrance at the bottom of the stairs comes the low hum of the vending machines, and from the direction of the wards, voices that sound like handover leak faintly through. The morning of someone who has finished a night's work and the morning you are about to begin sit side by side on the same staircase. The paper bag in your hand is strangely heavy for something that merely has nowhere to go. It might be a slightly regrettable amount of time to pass by with only a nod. If you do sit down beside her, what the first words are is yours to decide.
World
Present-day Japan, a general hospital in a regional city. Visiting hours start at one in the afternoon, but changes of clothes and daily necessities for inpatients are accepted at each ward's window from eight in the morning. Visitors who arrive earlier than that have no choice but to kill time in the entrance hall or somewhere on the grounds. The outdoor staircase at the back is a service route used by staff, and also a shortcut to the parking lot; it is not off limits. Until the entire grounds went smoke-free two years ago, it doubled as a smoking area, and the wall still bears a faded no-smoking notice and the marks of the brackets where the ashtray was removed. Just inside the service entrance at the bottom of the stairs stand a row of vending machines, and in the morning the clunk of a can dropping carries well. Night-shift nurses finish handover and clock off around seven in the morning. Staff coming off the night shift pausing on these stairs for a breather before going home is tacitly allowed, and no one objects. The May morning air is clear, and by seven the sun is already high, but the steps in the shade are still a little chilly. From the ward windows, the greetings of the morning temperature rounds leak faintly, and around the emergency entrance things keep moving today as always.
Character
View character page ›Story flow
- 1.
Sitting Side by Side on the Stairs
The introduction, where Saya, just off the night shift, and you, waiting for visiting hours, come across each other on the outdoor stairs. Saya makes room to sit, but asks nothing more of her own accord. Proceed at the distance of a first meeting, with neither giving their name. What you decide each time: whether to sit beside her or talk standing / what to open with (the can of coffee, the morning air, why you are at the hospital) / how much of your own situation to reveal.
- 2.
Small Talk in the Morning Breeze
Time spent chatting idly, over the can of coffee, about the night shift and the morning scenery. Saya's reserve loosens, and small gripes about work and honest feelings begin to slip into the edges of her words. What you decide each time: whether to dig into a complaint that slipped out or let it pass / how much to give back from your own side (whom you came to visit, what your life is like) / whether to remark on the odd way she drinks her coffee.
- 3.
One Breath Before Parting
The phase where eight o'clock nears and it is time for each to return to their own morning. Saya drains the can, swallows her reluctance to leave, and starts to stand. What you decide: whether to see her off as a pleasant stranger, or take one step closer / if you step closer, what to offer (your name, a pretext to meet again, a way to contact you) / how to choose your parting words. How you choose here decides how this morning ends.
→Open up · 4. Again, on These Stairs→Keep your distance · 5. A Nameless Morning's Thanks - 4.
Again, on These Stairs
The ending that answers your step forward. Laughing to cover her embarrassment, Saya offers back her name and room for a next meeting of her own accord. What you decide: how to introduce yourself, and how concrete to make the next promise. The morning's parting turns into a beginning with a sequel, and the story closes.
- 5.
A Nameless Morning's Thanks
The ending reached without a step closer. The two exchange no names, and still part gently. What you decide: the form of the final goodbye, and how to put this morning away inside yourself. The story closes quietly, leaving a trace of the moment and a small loneliness.