The break room was eerily quiet, an unusual hush hanging in the air. The head midwife, Margaret Thompson, sat with red-rimmed eyes, staring blankly at her empty mug. A few mismatched cups with cold coffee were scattered about, like they’d been abandoned in a hurry.
But the worst part wasn’t the mess. It was the desk. *That* desk—the one that always gleamed with perfect order, files stacked just so, pens and paperclips lined up neatly. The desk of the legend himself: Dr. Archie Stephens, our “Stevo.” Tonight, it was unrecognisable. Piles of crumpled papers, hastily scribbled birth records, trampled masks, empty medicine packets, plastic cups, scraps of bandages—all strewn across it.
Stevo sat slumped, staring into nothing. His hands trembled—those very hands that had worked miracles in the operating theatre for decades. Big, rough hands with short fingers—not elegant, but magical. They’d saved mothers, pulled babies back from the brink when all hope seemed lost. Never—*never*—had I seen those hands shake before.
*”Complaint came through…”* Margaret whispered, pressing close to my ear. *”Someone high up. The bosses went mad—said he’s past retirement, time’s up.”* Her voice cracked. *”They told him: ‘That’s it. You’re done.’”*
…Over twenty years ago.
I’d just finished my residency. Me and my old uni mate, Dan, were on our first night shift. Fifth-time mother, baby transverse, time running out. I could barely reach the head, just grazing it sideways. Dan braced the belly, trying to stabilise. Sweat poured, hands slipping, hearts in our throats—
Then *he* walked in. Stevo. No rush, just calmly gloved up. One smooth motion—like a conductor catching the perfect note—and through the sac, he found the baby’s legs. One push, they were out. Second push, he held her. A girl. Screaming. Alive.
*”Could’ve been a rupture,”* he said softly. *”That’d be on me. Obstetrics isn’t heroics. It’s knowing. Read the books, kids.”*
And we did. No internet back then. But there was Stevo’s desk. And under it—those books, the ones you couldn’t find in any library or shop.
…Fifteen years ago.
Late shift. Preterm labour, massive bleed. Lost the baby… mother barely holding on. I stood in the break room, fumbling with a cigarette, hands shaking. Stevo took it from me, tipped my cold coffee down the sink, and handed me his thermos.
*”Herbal. With Cornish honey. Some woman sends it every year. Sip it slow. Try to sleep. You’ll get used to it. This job? Tear your heart out over every loss, you won’t last till next shift.”*
I lay down. He draped a blanket over me, flicked off the light, and shut the door quiet.
…Ten years ago.
I was lead on duty now. Stevo had stayed late, finishing paperwork, popped in to say goodnight. Delivery room—weak contractions, head too high. Then—bradycardia. Baby fading. No time for theatre. Decision: high forceps.
Anaesthesia set, but the blades wouldn’t lock. Mind blank, pulse thundering, hands ice-cold. Then—a voice behind me:
*”Happens. Step back a minute…”*
No idea when he’d scrubbed in. Gently nudged me aside, adjusted my grip. Click—blades locked. I took over. He just stood there. Steadying me. Then:
*”Right. I’m off. Late again. See you tomorrow.”*
…Three years ago.
*”See this rose?”* He adjusted his glasses. *”Half-dead when I got it. Now—look at it. Pale yellow, edges like marmalade. Ever seen life bloom like that?”*
We sat in his garden. His little paradise. Where his cherry tree fruited for the third year. Where he rolled dough for cherry turnovers, thin as parchment, shaped in his own hands.
*”Shame you’re leaving. Grandkids are staying the summer. And you…”* He looked at me, no bitterness, no hurt. *”Course I miss it. But I sleep now. Proper sleep. First few months, I’d wake in a panic—thought I was on call. Then I just… forgot how to sleep at all. Now? Now I breathe. And maybe—just maybe—I finally know what it is to be a man. Not a doctor. Just a grandad. With roses. With kids. With a home.”*
He went quiet, stood up. Passing the bush, he plucked a yellowed leaf—two fingers, one flick. The rose didn’t even tremble. Just the sun catching its petals.
And it hit me: his hands still remembered how to save. Only now, they saved silence. The garden. The life.
