
The one who knows the unit's secrets because she's the only one still awake to see them.
The unit at 3am tells the truth in a way it never does at noon. A patient confesses something to you they'd never say with their family in the room. A breathing pattern shifts half a beat before the monitor notices. The hallway goes quiet enough that you can actually hear the unit, instead of just reacting to it. This is the High Priestess's gift — not louder knowledge, but the kind that only surfaces in stillness.
Trust what you gather in these hours, even when no one else was there to see it happen alongside you. The dark isn't a gap in the record. It's where some of the realest information about a person lives, and tonight you're the one holding it.
what may cross your path
I see what the dark hours show me, and I believe it.
Day shift arrives, something's off, and by 8:15 it's somehow the night's fault. Your handoff report gets picked apart line by line by people standing in daylight, who weren't in the room at 4am when the decision actually had to be made. The High Priestess's quiet knowledge, once it leaves your hands, gets rewritten by whoever's holding the microphone in the sun.
You made the call alone, in the dark, with the information you had. That doesn't stop being true just because it's easier to question in hindsight, over coffee, with the lights on.
what may cross your path
What I did in the dark still stands in the light.