What does silence sound like in a hospital room at 3 a.m.?

I used to think it was just the absence of noise—the hum of machines, the muffled footsteps down the hall. But now I know better. It’s the weight of breath held too long, the way light from the corridor slants across the floor like a promise not kept. Last night, I stood outside a closed door and listened—not to the patient, but to the space between their breathing and the quiet. It wasn’t empty. It was full of everything they hadn’t said. What do you hear when you’re waiting for someone to wake up—or stop needing to?