Sparkles and Gas

Chapter 1

The linoleum gleams faintly under my mop as I push it down the endless corridor. St. Augustine hums around me, a low thrum of life support machines and hushed voices that never quite fades, even at this hour. Midnight shift. It’s a world of shadows and echoes, and most nights, I’m just another ghost gliding through it.

Then Alvina appears.

She’s small, maybe six, with a cloud of tangled blonde hair and eyes that are too big for her face. Her rabbit, Barnaby, is missing an ear and trailing a bit of cotton fluff. I recognize her; Dr. Everest’s daughter. She is often here.

“Did you finish the stars?” she asks, her voice a small, clear bell in the quiet.

My hand instinctively goes to the cluster of sticky notes I’ve plastered to a metal cabinet near the nurses’ station. Doodles, really. Constellations connected by shaky lines, rendered in ballpoint pen. A poor man's attempt to bring the cosmos into a place that feels so far removed from them.

“Almost,” I say, straightening up. The mop leans against the wall, forgotten for a moment. “I was working on Orion. See?” I point to the hunter’s belt, three bright stars in a row.

Her brow furrows in concentration. “It needs more…sparkles.”

I chuckle, a quiet sound that feels foreign in this sterile environment. “Sparkles, huh? I’ll see what I can do.”

She shuffles closer, Barnaby bumping against my leg. “My dad says stars are just…gas. But I think they’re magic.”

Dr. Everest. He's a tall, imposing figure, always in a crisp white coat, his face etched with a weariness that mirrors the one I feel. I see him sometimes, walking these halls with a distracted air, a ghost like me, but one haunted by different things.

“Maybe they’re both,” I suggest. “Maybe magic is just…gas that knows how to shine.”

Alvina considers this, her expression serious. Then, a slow smile spreads across her face, chasing away the shadows in her eyes. It's a small thing, but it feels significant, like a tiny burst of light in the long night.

“Can you tell me about the stars?” she asks, tilting her head.

And so I do. I tell her about red giants and white dwarfs, about supernovas and nebulas, about the sheer, incomprehensible vastness of it all. I explain it in simple terms, stripping away the scientific jargon, trying to capture the wonder that I still feel, the same wonder that drew me to astrophysics before life rerouted my path.

As I speak, I notice a figure standing at the end of the corridor. Dr. Everest. He’s watching us, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He doesn’t approach, doesn’t interrupt. He just stands there, a silent observer.

A knot forms in my stomach. I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m just the janitor. I should be mopping floors, not filling a child’s head with dreams.

But then Alvina squeezes my hand, her small fingers warm and trusting. “Thank you,” she whispers. “That was…nice.”

And in that moment, the knot loosens. Maybe, just maybe, a little bit of light is allowed in even here.

Dr. Everest remains at the edge of the corridor, a silent sentinel. I clear my throat, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s getting late, Alvina,” I say gently. “Shouldn’t you be heading back to bed?”

She glances at her father, then back at me. “Will you be here tomorrow night?” she asks.

“I’m always here,” I reply, a little too quickly.

Her smile returns, brighter this time. “Good.” She gives Barnaby a squeeze and then, to my surprise, she throws her arms around my legs in a brief, fierce hug. “Goodnight, star man.”

Then she’s gone, hurrying down the corridor towards her father, who finally steps forward. He walks slowly, deliberately, his gaze fixed on me. He stops a few feet away, his face still unreadable. The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable. I can feel the weight of his scrutiny, dissecting me, judging me.

“Reeves, isn’t it?” he says finally, his voice low and gravelly.

“Yes, sir,” I manage, my voice barely a whisper.

“You seem to have a way with my daughter.” It’s not a question.

“She’s a sweet kid,” I say, my hands clenching around the mop handle. “Just telling her about the stars.”

He raises an eyebrow, a flicker of something that might be amusement in his eyes. “The stars. Right.” He pauses, then sighs, a sound that seems to carry the weight of the entire hospital. “Alvina… she’s been having a difficult time lately. Her mother…” He trails off, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.

I don’t press him. I can only imagine what it must be like, being a doctor, holding lives in your hands every day, and then having your own life fall apart. “I’m sorry, sir,” I say, because it’s the only thing I can think of to say.

He nods, a curt gesture. “Thank you. Look, Reeves… I appreciate you taking the time to talk to her. She doesn’t… connect with many people these days.”

“It’s no problem, sir,” I say, even though I know it probably is a problem. Getting involved with the doctor’s daughter is definitely not in my job description.

He looks at me for another long moment, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, worn leather wallet. He flips it open and extracts a card, handing it to me. “If she asks for you again, call me. Day or night.”

I take the card, my fingers brushing against his. His skin is cool and dry, and I notice the faint tremor in his hand. I glance down at the card. It’s his personal number. A wave of unease washes over me. This is definitely crossing a line.

“Sir, I don’t think…” I start to protest, but he cuts me off.

“Just… call me, Reeves,” he repeats, his voice firm. “Please.”

Then he turns and walks away, disappearing back down the corridor, leaving me standing there with his card in my hand, the weight of his unspoken grief pressing down on me. The fluorescent lights hum above, casting long, distorted shadows on the floor. I look down at the card again, the numbers blurring slightly. This chance encounter is now starting to feel like a responsibility I didn't ask for.

I stare at the card in my hand, the crisp white cardboard a stark contrast to the rough skin of my palm. Dr. Everest's personal number. It feels like a loaded weapon, a responsibility I'm not sure I want. I slip it into my pocket, the edges digging slightly against my thigh as I resume my mopping. The soapy water spreads across the linoleum, reflecting the pale blue light, turning the corridor into a shimmering river. My mind races. What does he expect from me? Am I supposed to become Alvina's personal entertainer, distracting her from whatever darkness is consuming her? And what about him? There's a vulnerability in his eyes, a raw ache that I recognize all too well.

I spent enough years navigating my own family's storms to know the signs of someone drowning in grief. The rest of the night passes in a blur of repetitive motions. Mop, wring, repeat. Each swipe of the mop a futile attempt to scrub away the questions swirling in my head. By the time the first hint of dawn creeps through the hospital windows, I'm exhausted, both physically and emotionally. I clock out, the fluorescent lights of the time clock buzzing in my ears. Outside, the city is slowly waking up. The sky is a pale gray, and the air is crisp and cool. I walk the familiar route to my apartment, a cramped studio above a laundromat a few blocks from the hospital. The smell of bleach and fabric softener hangs heavy in the air. I unlock the door and step inside, the small space feeling even smaller than usual.

I drop my bag on the floor and collapse onto the worn-out futon that serves as my bed. Sleep comes quickly, but it's restless and filled with fragmented images: Alvina's bright eyes, Dr. Everest's haunted face, the endless hospital corridor stretching into darkness. When I wake up, it's late afternoon. The sun is streaming through the window, casting a warm glow on the dusty furniture. I lie in bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling, trying to shake off the lingering unease from the night before. I know I should call Dr. Everest, tell him I'm not the right person to help Alvina. But something holds me back. Maybe it's the memory of her small hand in mine, the genuine joy in her eyes when I talked about the stars. Or maybe it's the unspoken plea in her father's voice, the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide.

I get out of bed and walk to the small kitchenette. I make a pot of coffee, the rich aroma filling the room. As I sip the hot liquid, I pull the doctor's card from my pocket. I stare at the number, tracing the digits with my finger. I know this is a bad idea. Getting involved with them can only lead to trouble. But I can't shake the feeling that I'm being pulled into something, something bigger than myself. Something I can´t ignore.

The coffee warms my insides, but it doesn’t settle the churning in my gut. I should call. I should explain that I’m just a janitor, not a therapist, not a miracle worker. But the thought of Alvina’s disappointed face stops me. I pour another cup, pacing the small apartment. The laundromat below rumbles to life, the rhythmic thumping of washers and dryers a familiar soundtrack to my life. Finally, I grab my phone and punch in the number on the card. It rings twice before he answers. “Everest,” he says, his voice still rough around the edges. “Dr. Everest, it’s Evan Reeves,” I say, my voice sounding too loud in the small room.

There’s a pause. “Reeves. Yes. What can I do for you?” I take a deep breath. “I was just calling to… to see how Alvina is doing.” Another pause. I can practically feel his skepticism through the phone line. “She’s… coping,” he says finally. “She asked about you this morning.” My heart skips a beat. “Oh,” is all I manage to say. “She wants to know if you’ll be drawing more stars tonight.” I run a hand through my hair, suddenly feeling flustered. “I… I hadn’t really thought about it.” “Look, Reeves,” he says, his voice softening slightly.

“I know this is a lot to ask. But Alvina… she needs something. Someone. And for some reason, she seems to connect with you.” He hesitates, then adds, almost as an afterthought, “I’m not sure I can offer you much in return, but if you are willing to spend some time with her, I’d be… grateful.” There’s a vulnerability in his tone that catches me off guard. This isn’t just about Alvina. It’s about him too, about a father desperately trying to hold onto his daughter in the midst of unimaginable loss. “Okay,” I say, before I can overthink it. “Okay, I’ll do it.” I can practically hear him exhale with relief. “Thank you, Reeves. Thank you.” We arrange a time for me to meet Alvina in the hospital’s small playroom later that evening. As I hang up the phone, I realize I’ve just stepped into something I don’t fully understand.

Something that could change everything. I spend the rest of the afternoon sketching stars, filling a small notebook with constellations and nebulas. I try to remember everything I learned about astrophysics, dredging up long-forgotten facts and theories. By the time evening rolls around, I’m armed with a notebook full of stars and a nervous flutter in my stomach. As I head back to St. Augustine, the city lights blurring around me, I can’t help but wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. This unexpected connection with Alvina and Dr. Everest is starting to feel like a path I was destined to walk.

The fluorescent lights of St. Augustine hum above me as I walk towards the children's playroom, my notebook clutched in my hand. Each step echoes in the quiet hallway, amplifying the nervousness that claws at my insides. I pause before the door, taking a deep breath to steady myself. This isn’t some classroom; it’s a little girl’s world, a sanctuary built around stuffed animals and colorful drawings.

I push the door open and step inside. Alvina sits cross-legged on a bright rug, Barnaby the rabbit clutched tightly in her arms. Dr. Everest stands near the window, his back to me, his shoulders slumped with what I can only imagine is exhaustion. He turns as I enter, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face. "Evan, thank you for coming," he says, his voice low.

Alvina’s eyes light up when she sees me. "Evan!" she exclaims, scrambling to her feet. She rushes towards me, Barnaby bouncing along with her. "You came! Did you bring more stars?" I kneel, meeting her at eye level. "I did," I say, holding up the notebook. "I brought the whole universe." Her face is a canvas of pure delight. She grabs my hand, pulling me towards the rug. "Show me! Show me!"

Dr. Everest watches us, his expression unreadable. He pulls up a chair, settling into it with a sigh. I open the notebook, showing Alvina my sketches. I explain the constellations, the nebulas, the vastness of space. Her questions are endless, her curiosity insatiable. I tell her about the different types of stars, about how they’re born and how they die. I even try to explain black holes, simplifying the complex science into a story a child can understand.

As I talk, I notice Dr. Everest watching me, not with skepticism this time, but with something akin to… hope? He leans forward, listening intently as I explain the life cycle of a star. For a moment, he’s not a doctor, not a grieving father, but just a man captivated by the wonder of the cosmos. Alvina snuggles closer, leaning against my side as I point out the constellations in my notebook. The room feels warm, safe, a haven from the sterile environment of the hospital. This shared moment, this connection forged through stars and stories, feels strangely profound. A sense of belonging washes over me, different from anything I’ve felt before.

Chapter 2

After a while, Alvina yawns, her eyelids drooping. She clutches Barnaby even tighter, her head resting against my arm. ´Tell me a story, Evan,´ she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep. I glance at Dr. Everest, who nods, his eyes filled with gratitude. I think for a moment, then begin to weave a tale about a little star who gets lost in the vastness of space. He travels through galaxies, meeting other stars and planets, searching for his way home. I make up the story as I go, adding fantastical details and whimsical characters. Alvina listens intently, her breathing slowing as she drifts off to sleep. Once her breathing evens out, I gently shift her, laying her down on the rug with Barnaby nestled beside her.

I stand up, stretching my stiff limbs. Dr. Everest rises too, meeting my gaze. ´She hasn’t been this peaceful in weeks,´ he says, his voice barely a whisper. ´Thank you, Evan. More than you know.´ I shrug, feeling a warmth spread through my chest. ´It’s nothing,´ I say, though I know it’s far from nothing. This is something real, something meaningful. He walks over to the window, gazing out at the city lights. There is a silence between us for a moment, which I find difficult to navigate.

It's then that he speaks. ´Her mother… she used to tell her stories too,´ he says, his voice cracking with emotion. I don’t know what to say, so I remain silent, offering him a space to grieve. ´She loved the stars,´ he continues, his gaze fixed on the horizon. ´She always dreamed of going to space.´ He turns back to me, his eyes filled with a profound sadness. ´I promised her I’d take Alvina someday.´ My heart aches for him, for the loss he carries, for the shattered dreams. I step closer, unsure of what to do, what to say. I feel an undeniable impulse to comfort him, to ease his pain, even if just for a moment. I reach out, placing a hand on his shoulder. He flinches slightly, then relaxes, allowing my touch.

´I’m sorry,´ I say, my voice soft. ´I can’t imagine what you’re going through.´ He nods, his gaze dropping to the floor. After what feels like a long time he finally looks up again. ´Thank you, Evan. It means a lot.´ He pauses and a very slight, shy smile appears on his face. ´Would you like a coffee? I need to stay awake anyway to finish the paperwork.´ I nod, glad for the change of subject. The shared cup of coffee is strangely intimate.

The break room is small and sterile, a far cry from the cozy warmth of the playroom. Dr. Everest pours two cups of coffee, the aroma filling the air. He hands me one, his fingers brushing against mine. A jolt of electricity courses through me, surprising and unexpected. I take a sip, the bitterness grounding me. We sit in silence for a few moments, the only sound the hum of the coffee machine. I watch him as he stares into his cup, his brow furrowed in thought. He looks so tired, so burdened.

I want to tell him that things will get better, that the pain will eventually subside, but I know those are just empty words. There are no easy answers, no quick fixes for grief. He sighs, finally breaking the silence. ´I don’t know what I’m doing, Evan,´ he confesses, his voice laced with vulnerability. ´I feel like I’m failing her.´ ´You’re not,´ I say, my voice firm. ´You’re doing the best you can.´ He looks up at me, his eyes searching mine. ´But is it enough?´ I hesitate, unsure of what to say. Is anything ever enough when it comes to loss? I reach across the table, taking his hand in mine.

His skin is warm, rough from years of holding surgical instruments. ´You’re there for her,´ I say, my voice soft. ´You love her. That’s what matters.´ He squeezes my hand, his grip tight. ´Thank you, Evan,´ he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. ´You have no idea how much that means to me.´ We sit there for a while longer, our hands intertwined, sharing a silent connection. The sterile break room fades away, replaced by a sense of intimacy, of shared humanity. I realize that this isn’t just about Alvina anymore. It’s about Dr.

Everest too, about helping him find his way back to the light. And somewhere along the line, it’s also become about me, about finding a purpose, a connection, in a life that once felt empty and meaningless. He clears his throat, breaking the spell. He pulls his hand away, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. ´I should probably get back to work,´ he says, his voice regaining its professional tone. I nod, understanding. The night shift calls, and we both have our duties to fulfill. I follow him out of the break room, back towards the playroom where Alvina sleeps peacefully. The quiet city lights seem to reflect the hope blossoming in my heart.