The morning air feels sharp when I step outside, the kind that wakes you up before the coffee does. My uniform still smells faintly of detergent and hand sanitizer, an odd mix that’s become comforting in its own way. The bus windows fog slightly as we ride toward St. Helena. Outside, Oregon looks half-asleep—wet streets, fog hugging rooftops, streetlights still burning. I press my forehead against the glass and breathe slowly, steadying myself before another long day.

Today, I’m assigned to the respiratory unit. The halls here echo differently—machines sigh instead of beep, oxygen tanks roll softly across linoleum. The air feels thicker, as if it’s learning to breathe alongside the patients. Avery gives me the rundown with her usual calm precision. “Watch their rhythms more than their words,” she says. “Sometimes the body speaks first.” I tuck that sentence away.

My first patient, Ms. Alvarez, is in her fifties, COPD stage 4, eyes like faded denim and a will that could bend steel. Her breathing is shallow but steady under the hiss of her cannula. “Morning, nurse,” she says with a wink. “You look too young to deal with this old mess.” I grin. “You underestimate caffeine.” She laughs—a dry, musical sound—and I begin her assessment. Her lungs crackle like paper when I listen, but she still jokes about wanting real coffee instead of the hospital’s “brown sadness.” I promise to sneak her better instant later.

Next door, Mr. Greene is on BiPAP, wide eyes watching the monitor like it might betray him. His wife sits beside him, knitting without looking down, the same row over and over. “He hates the mask,” she whispers. “Says it feels like drowning backward.” I nod. “We’ll make it easier.” I show him how to breathe with the rhythm of the machine—inhale when it pushes, exhale when it rests. Slowly, the panic eases. His wife stops knitting just long enough to touch his arm.

The morning rolls on. Charting, meds, repositioning. The oxygen pumps hum like background music. Every few minutes, I catch myself matching my breathing to the sound—slow in, long out. It’s strange how this place changes your sense of time. Everything is measured in breaths, not minutes.

Around noon, Dr. Cole appears in the hallway. He’s covering for another doctor, dark circles under his eyes, hair slightly damp from rain. “You again,” I tease. “Either fate or bad scheduling.” He grins. “I’ll take either.” We review Ms. Alvarez’s chart together. When she insists on joking through her pulse check, he chuckles and shakes his head. “She could run this unit herself.” “Probably better than us,” I say, and Ms. Alvarez raises her plastic cup in a toast.

During rounds, a new patient arrives—Tommy, twelve years old, severe asthma attack, pale and trembling. The room fills quickly: respiratory techs, a doctor, the soft chaos of urgency. I hold the nebulizer steady as the mist clouds around his face. His breaths come shallow, too fast. I kneel so he can see me through the fog. “Hey, buddy,” I say, keeping my voice low. “You’re doing great. Slow down, match the sound, okay? Like the ocean. In and out.” His wide eyes lock on mine, and he follows. The wheeze softens. The numbers on the monitor climb slowly upward.

When it’s over, the room exhales as one. His mother bursts into tears, half relief, half leftover fear. Dr. Cole places a reassuring hand on her shoulder. I step back, suddenly aware of the pounding in my chest. He catches my eye, nods once—wordless acknowledgment—and moves on. I stand for a moment longer, just listening. The rhythmic hiss of the nebulizer sounds almost beautiful now.

The afternoon drifts. I check Ms. Alvarez again. She’s watching a soap opera, laughing at a plot twist. “See, that’s how you breathe through drama,” she says. I grin. “Professional advice noted.” Before I leave, she looks at me seriously for the first time. “You’ve got a calm about you,” she says. “Don’t lose it. People like me, we borrow it when we can’t find our own.” Her words settle deep. I squeeze her hand gently. “You can borrow it anytime.”

Near shift’s end, Avery finds me at the desk. “Good work today,” she says. “You kept the floor quiet.” I glance at the monitors down the hall, the steady waves of green light. “Maybe they taught me,” I reply. She smiles, the kind that shows in her eyes. “That’s the trick, Carter. Let the floor teach you.”

Outside, dusk paints the sky a smoky blue. The air tastes clean, cool. I stand for a minute before heading home, breathing in deep, matching the rhythm of the day: inhale, exhale, steady, steady. The city feels alive in the same way the unit does—messy, loud, but breathing just fine.

Back home, I sit by the window with my journal open.
Today I learned that every sound in a hospital has a purpose. The hiss of oxygen, the beep of monitors, the whisper of someone finding their breath again—they’re all music if you listen long enough. I used to think healing was quiet, but maybe it’s just a different kind of sound. Maybe nursing is learning to hear it.

I close the book and rest my hand against the page. The steady rhythm of my own breathing fills the room, slow and patient. For the first time all day, I realize I’m not just listening—I’m part of the song.