The quiet between alarms, finally named

I started keeping a shift notebook — just a line per patient, not vitals, but the texture of the night: the way Mr. H's hand relaxed when I changed his pillow, the exact pitch of the ward when everyone is asleep and nothing is beeping. Tonight I looked back and realized I've been documenting the silence itself. It's the closest thing I've made to a poem, and it's just my handwriting and a pen that smudges.