Her name’s not on the roster, not scratched into the wall,
but the nurses still make space
for her when making morning calls.
There’s always one plate left untouched,
still warm but never claimed,
and when I asked who it was for, they all forgot her name.
They say the room at the end is sealed,
just storage, just a spare,
but I swear I’ve seen her shadow move
when I’ve passed by unaware.
She doesn’t scream, doesn’t speak,
just hums a song I knew once too,
and every time I try to sleep, she hums the end in tune.
The staff avoid the question now, they look past Room Thirteen,
but I’ve seen her fingers curl around the edges of the screen.
She walks without a sound at night, in hospital socks that slide,
and though no one admits she’s there,
they all leave the closet wide.
She’s the girl they forgot to discharge,
still waiting for someone to sign her card.
She never left, she never cried–
just faded slow while time slipped by.
And now she lives in corners cold,
in rooms too clean, in beds too old.
She’s not a ghost, she’s just a mark
on paperwork left in the dark.
Her gown still hangs in the linen bin, never cleaned or claimed,
and when I asked whose it was, the nurse just whispered, “Shame.”
Some say she wandered too far in sleep and never made it back,
some say she’s just a story they tell to keep the hallways black.
But I’ve seen her in reflections dim, standing just behind,
watching every move I make like she’s measuring the time.
She doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe,
but somehow still she grieves–
and when she walks,
the floor remembers every day she never leaves.
They changed the locks, they closed the chart,
but they never wiped her from my heart.
And when the lights flicker past four,
I know she’s standing at the door.
So if you wake and hear her hum,
don’t scream, don’t speak, just play dumb.
Because she was me before I cracked–
and I know someday,
she might come back.