Chapter 2 — Late Shift Shadows

Cora

The pharmacy was quiet, as it often was in the late hours. The kind of quiet that could stretch into something oppressive if Cora wasn’t careful. She stood behind the counter, her hands tracing the edges of a clipboard, the paper beneath her fingers smooth and worn from frequent adjustments. Outside the wide windows, the streetlights cast a pale glow on the empty sidewalks, their hum blending faintly with the sterile buzz of the fluorescent bulbs above her. She set the clipboard down with a deliberate motion, aligning it precisely with the edge of the counter, before turning her attention to the shelves that lined the walls.

The order of the place was soothing, a carefully maintained structure that anchored her. Rows of amber bottles with white labels. Boxes stacked neatly by category. Everything in its place, as though the world might tilt off-kilter if even one item were misplaced. It wasn’t just about professionalism—though she took pride in that—it was the control these rituals offered her, a small reprieve from the chaos that still lingered in her mind.

Her gaze drifted to the drawer beneath the counter. She hesitated, her hand hovering for a moment before pulling it open. Inside were small slips of paper, folded and creased, some no larger than her palm. She picked one up, her fingertips brushing against its edge as though it might crumble under her touch. She unfolded it slowly, revealing her own handwriting, neat and precise, as though she were preparing a prescription. But the words weren’t instructions or advice. They were pieces of herself, fragments of thoughts she couldn’t quite say aloud.

*“The hardest part isn’t the mistake. It’s the echo of it. The way it reverberates long after everyone else has stopped listening.”*

The hospital came rushing back unbidden—the antiseptic sting in the air, the sharp mechanical beeping of monitors cutting through the silence. Her fingers tightened slightly on the paper as her breath hitched. She could still feel the heft of the syringe in her hand, the orderly chaos of the emergency room swirling around her. The calculation she had made, the precision she had trusted, and then the cold, razor-edged realization that she’d been wrong. The beeping monitor quickening to a frantic pace, the staccato shouts of nurses, the blur of motion as the antidote was administered. The boy had lived. The crisis was averted. But the echo of that moment—the *what-ifs*—still clung to her, a sharp edge against her every thought.

Her breath wavered as she refolded the note carefully, almost reverently, and slipped it back into the drawer. She pushed it closed—not harshly, but firmly, as though sealing it away might keep the past from creeping out.

The chime of the door startled her. Her head snapped up, her heart skipping a beat before she saw who it was. Mr. Graham shuffled in, leaning heavily on his cane, his expression set in the apologetic grimace he always wore when he came in late.

“Evening, Miss Bennett,” he said, his voice gravelly but kind.

“Good evening, Mr. Graham.” She slipped effortlessly into her professional tone, warm but measured. “Picking up your prescription?”

He nodded, his movements slow and deliberate. “Sorry to bother you so late. I meant to come earlier, but time got away from me.”

“It’s no bother at all,” she assured him, already moving to retrieve the small paper bag she’d prepared earlier in the day. She handed it to him with a practiced smile. “Here you go. Everything’s in order, as usual.”

He glanced at the bag, then back at her with a faint smile. “You’re always so on top of things, Miss Bennett. I don’t know how you do it.”

Cora’s smile twitched slightly, and she felt the familiar pang of self-doubt beneath his words. They were meant as a compliment, she knew, but they brushed against the part of her that understood how precariously her control was balanced. “Just part of the job,” she said lightly, deflecting the praise. “Have a good night, Mr. Graham. Let me know if you have any questions.”

He nodded and turned, his footsteps slow and steady as he made his way out. The chime of the door echoed softly as it closed behind him, leaving her alone once more with the hum of the lights and the rhythmic tick of the clock mounted on the wall.

She steadied herself with a deep breath, leaning against the counter and staring out at the empty street beyond the windows. The stillness of it reminded her of the hospital at night, the way the corridors would stretch endlessly, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows on the polished floors. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, willing the memory away. But it crept in anyway, unwelcome and sharp.

Her fingers tightened on the edge of the counter, the smooth surface grounding her in the present. She opened her eyes again, forcing herself to focus on the steady buzz of the pharmacy’s lights, the clean rows of shelves. She wasn’t at the hospital anymore. She’d left that world behind, traded its relentless pace and high stakes for something quieter, something she could control. Yet some nights, like this one, the echoes of the past felt louder than the present.

Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Milo Aster. There had been something about him, something in his quiet, deliberate movements, that lingered. She’d noticed the tension in his jaw when she’d mentioned the importance of his medication, the faint grease stains on his cuffs hinting at long hours of physical work. And then there was his prescription—a beta blocker. It wasn’t just the health issue it suggested; it was the way he’d handed it to her, almost reluctantly, as though accepting help was an act that didn’t come easily.

She wondered what kind of weight he was carrying. His guarded demeanor felt familiar in a way she couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it was the way he moved, deliberate but strained, or the way his voice, steady and low, carried a subtle undertone of exhaustion. She shook her head, chiding herself for the thought. He was just a customer, no different from any of the others who passed through the pharmacy.

And yet, her thoughts returned to him, circling back to the faint vulnerability he’d revealed in that brief interaction. It was nothing, she told herself. Just a passing curiosity. But deep down, she knew it was more than that. She’d always been drawn to the fractures in people, the places where they tried to hold themselves together. Perhaps because she recognized those fractures in herself.

The clock chimed softly, marking the hour. Cora glanced at it, then at the pharmacy around her. The late shift was nearly over, and the quiet hum of the space gave way to the anticipation of closing time. She made one last round of the shelves, checking everything twice before locking the doors. As she reached for the keys, her hand brushed against her monogrammed pill case resting near the register. She paused, her fingers lightly grazing the engraved initials before tucking it into her bag—a small ritual that carried more comfort than she’d admit.

When she finally stepped outside, the cool night air greeted her, sharp against her skin after the sterile warmth of the pharmacy. For a moment, she stood on the sidewalk, staring out at the empty street. The lights of the town were dim, their glow soft and distant. Somewhere in the quiet, a faint rumble of a subway train echoed from underground.

She thought of Milo again, of the quiet weight he carried, and wondered if he was out there somewhere, navigating his own shadows. She adjusted her cardigan, tucking it closer around herself as she began walking toward home. The night was quiet, save for the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. And though the echoes of her past still lingered in the corners of her mind, they felt a little softer now, tempered by the thought of someone else carrying burdens of their own.

It was a small comfort, but it was enough to carry her through the night.