Keys, Conspiracies, and a Very Suspiciously Wrapped Something (Spoiler: It's Not Cookies)
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Author Note: Alright, fellow insomniacs and lovers of late-night hospital drama! Sawyer's just trying to find his locker keys and maybe a snack, but the universe (and possibly a slightly unhinged relative) has other plans. Get ready for a detour into the weird and wonderful. And maybe keep a safe distance from any oddly shaped packages. Just a suggestion.
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Sawyer stretched slowly, his arms arching above his head in a deliberate motion that drew a few reluctant cracks from his overworked joints. Every movement felt like pulling resistance bands woven from lead. His body ached—not the dramatic kind of ache that screamed pain, but the dull, stubborn throb of muscles pushed past their limits over and over again.
As he stepped out of the patient's room, the sterile scent of antiseptic clung to his scrubs, and the harsh glare of the corridor's fluorescent lighting washed over his pale, slightly clammy skin. He blinked against the brightness, his eyelids heavy, like curtains too worn to stay open. A yawn crept up his throat, and he barely stifled it with the back of his hand, more out of habit than politeness.
Exhaustion clung to him like humidity—thick, invisible, inescapable. It seeped into his bones, turned his thoughts sluggish, and wrapped its arms around him like an old enemy. His night shift had only just begun, but the weight of it had already begun to press down on him like wet concrete. Twelve hours stretched out ahead of him like a dark, narrow tunnel with no end in sight.
He muttered under his breath—small curses, quiet protests. Nothing dramatic, just the half-hearted rebellion of a man trying to hold onto a thread of sanity in a world of beeping machines, endless rounds, and the dull hum of artificial light. He loved his job, in a way. But right now, he hated everything about it.
A glance at his watch—a worn-out piece with a cracked strap and a too-bright display—confirmed the worst. 9:00 PM. Still early. The soft blue glow stared back at him like an indifferent judge.
His stomach growled loudly, breaking the silence. The kind of growl that twisted with hunger and nausea all at once. He rubbed at it absently, the thought of food feeling almost distant—just one more thing he didn't have time or energy for. Still, he knew he had to eat. Something. Anything. Even a vending machine sandwich would do.
He patted his pockets, searching for his locker key as he moved toward the break room, his fingers brushing past pens, gloves, an empty granola bar wrapper—nothing. He stopped mid-step, frowning. His hand moved again, slower this time, more certain. Still nothing.
"Ah, damn it," he muttered, his voice low, rough around the edges. The curse wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of a man whose patience had been tested too many times that day. He paused, closed his eyes for a beat longer than a blink, and exhaled a long breath through his nose.
He had left the keys in the changing room. Of course he had.
Dragging his feet back the way he came, he turned toward the far end of the corridor, where the staff locker room sat tucked into a forgotten corner of the ward. His footsteps echoed softly on the sterile tiles, a lonely rhythm that matched the hollow quiet of the hallway.
The walk wasn't far—maybe a minute or two. But right now, with the ache in his lower back and the fog in his head, it might as well have been a mile. Every step felt heavier than the last, like gravity had decided to work just a little harder on him than anyone else.
Still, he pressed on. Not because he had the energy—but because he didn't have a choice.
Sawyer possessed a deep, almost instinctive familiarity with the hospital—one that transcended his current position as a medical student. This wasn't just a place of work or learning to him. It was, in many ways, the backdrop of his childhood. He had practically grown up within these sterile white walls, among the hum of machines and the soft shuffle of nurses' footsteps. The scent of antiseptic, so harsh and foreign to others, had long ago embedded itself into his memory, becoming as familiar and oddly comforting as the smell of freshly laundered sheets or warm broth on rainy days.
He could still recall the sound of his own small feet pattering along these very hallways, echoing off the polished tile floors as he played make-believe between waiting room chairs. Hours used to stretch endlessly, each minute ballooning as he waited for his mother to finish her shift. Time moved differently back then—slower, more uncertain. The hospital had always felt too big for him, too cold, too quiet, and yet it had also been one of the few places where he felt close to her.
His mother had been—still was—a force of nature. A brilliant doctor with a commanding presence, she moved through the hospital like she belonged there, like the world tilted ever so slightly to make way for her. She was often tired, sometimes distracted, always busy—but never cold. Her love for her patients ran deep, and so did her love for him, though the former often stole time from the latter. He didn't resent it. Not really. He had learned early on what kind of woman his mother was: devoted, selfless, and stubborn in her loyalty to those who needed her most.
And though she was frequently called in—emergency after emergency, late-night calls, extra rounds on weekends—when they did share time together, she made it matter. Whether it was a quick hug between consults or a few quiet minutes in the staff break room, she always gave him her full attention, listening to his little boy stories like they were as important as her patients' charts. Those small moments had etched themselves into his heart like warm fingerprints pressed into glass.
He remembered her vividly, like a favorite photograph burned into the back of his mind—never fading, never aging. Her soft, silky brown hair always seemed to catch the light just right, cascading down her shoulders in gentle waves that framed her delicate features. Her eyes, a brilliant and expressive shade of blue, sparkled with a kind of warmth that made the world feel less overwhelming. They were the kind of eyes that didn't just see you—they understood you. They noticed the smallest shifts in emotion, the quiet victories, the hidden hurts.
Her voice had been his constant. Calm. Measured. Soothing in a way that made the chaos around them seem far away. There was strength in it—not loud or overbearing, but firm, reassuring. She didn't waste her words, but when she spoke, he listened. It was only when he achieved something, no matter how minor, that her voice would lift, animated and filled with pride. Whether it was tying his shoelaces right or getting a math question correct, her praise always felt like gold. It made him feel seen. Capable. Like he mattered in a world that sometimes felt too large for him.
She had been his center. His beginning and end. The anchor that held him steady in the unpredictable tides of childhood. There were no bedtime stories without her voice. No victories without her smile. She was more than a parent—she was his compass, his guiding star when everything else felt lost or uncertain.
Even now, years later, as he walked these halls in a white coat of his own, those memories clung to the corners of his mind, whispering reminders of where he came from and why he had chosen this path. The hospital wasn't just a place of work. It was history. It was home.
His father, on the other hand, was little more than a shadow. A vague figure without substance, a faceless ghost haunting the far edges of his memory. Sawyer couldn't even recall the sound of his voice or the shape of his silhouette. It was as if the man had deliberately erased himself from their lives. His mother never spoke of him. Not once. If his name had ever passed her lips, Sawyer hadn't caught it. She carried her silence like armor, and he learned early not to pry. There was something sacred about that silence. Painful, perhaps, but sacred nonetheless.
The only tangible trace of the man was Sawyer's hair—an unusual, almost startling shade of silvery white that stood out starkly against his pale skin. It was a trait his mother once briefly mentioned he had inherited from "someone long gone," before changing the subject and never bringing it up again. That moment had lingered in Sawyer's mind like a riddle with no answer.
But he never pressed her. He never asked. They had an unspoken pact—an invisible boundary neither of them crossed. A mutual understanding shaped by love, respect, and a quiet, enduring grief. Whatever history had been buried behind his mother's silence, he had no desire to dig it up. If the man had chosen to walk away—if he had knowingly left behind a woman as extraordinary as his mother, and a child who would have given anything for a father's hand—then Sawyer figured he wasn't worth knowing.
So he let it go. He built his world entirely around her. Around her quiet strength. Around the warmth of her love, which wrapped around him like a shield, protecting him from the sharp edges of a world that wasn't always kind. Their family wasn't traditional. It wasn't whole in the way most people understood it. But it was theirs. And in that space—between unspoken truths and shared resilience—Sawyer had learned how to survive, how to hope, and how to move forward.
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"Hey, Sawyer!"
A cheerful voice sliced through the hushed quiet of the hospital corridor, drawing Sawyer's attention. He turned his head slowly, still half-lost in his thoughts. Approaching from the other end of the hallway was Julie—one of the more familiar and genuinely kind faces on the hospital staff. Her energy always seemed to glow brighter at the end of a long shift, a trait Sawyer found both impressive and baffling.
She was smiling, her warmth unmistakable even beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. "How are you doing this evening?" she asked, her voice bright and light, laced with sincere concern. It wasn't just a passing greeting—Julie actually cared to hear the answer.
Sawyer's lips pulled into a tired smile, one corner barely lifting more than the other. There was an echo of exhaustion in his expression, a visible weight around his eyes that no amount of caffeine could lift.
"Hey, Mrs. Julie," he replied, his voice lower than hers, gravelly from overuse and lack of rest. "Thanks again for the coffee earlier. That was a lifesaver—seriously."
Julie chuckled softly, shifting something in her arms—a rectangular box wrapped in an eye-catching red paper so bright and gaudy it looked like it belonged under a Christmas tree rather than in a hospital corridor. It was decorated with a cheap silver bow taped awkwardly to one side.
"Let me help you with that," Sawyer offered, already stepping forward. His hands reached instinctively, not because the box looked heavy, but because it was in his nature to help—even when he was running on fumes.
Julie gratefully allowed him to take it, brushing her palms together as she sighed. "Thanks. That thing's more awkward than heavy. Anyway—this came in earlier. It's for you, I think. Or… maybe not exactly."
Sawyer's gaze dropped to the large printed label affixed to the top of the box. The letters were bold and sharp, likely printed with care, the ink fresh and dark as midnight.
FOR REID
The name brought him to a standstill. He blinked, puzzled. Reid. It was almost his name, but not quite. His stomach turned slightly, a strange flutter of unease unfurling in his gut. There was something unnerving about the subtle misnaming—something off.
"Reid?" he muttered under his breath, brow furrowed. His fingers traced the edges of the label, as if the texture might give him an answer.
It wasn't unusual for the hospital mail to get mixed up. Staff were always coming and going, interns rotated weekly, and mistakes happened all the time—but something about this felt different.
"Do you know another Reid?" Julie asked, her curiosity piqued as she peeked over his shoulder.
"No," Sawyer replied after a beat, still staring at the label. His voice was quiet now, more to himself than anyone else.
No... but for some reason, the package tugged at something buried deep—something he couldn't quite name.
"Thanks, Mrs. Julie," Sawyer said, his voice soft as he accepted the box from her hands. His fingertips brushed against the coarse, oddly textured wrapping paper—cheap, festive, and wrinkled in places, like it had been hurriedly done in the backseat of a car or at a cluttered kitchen table.
Julie gave him a quick nod, her ever-bright smile lingering a moment longer before she turned on her heel. Her footsteps were light, almost buoyant, as she headed back toward the reception desk with a small wave over her shoulder. The hallway soon swallowed the sound of her departure, leaving him alone once again in the dim fluorescent silence.
Sawyer stood motionless for a beat, the rectangular box balanced in his arms, the echo of her shoes still fading from his ears. His gaze dropped to the name on the label once more.
FOR REID
The letters stared back at him with unnerving boldness. The name was still wrong. He was Reid but No one at the hospital called him that. He wasn't even aware of any staff member by that knew that name.
Most of the forgot about him after his mother's death. They even disassociated him with her.
A thin thread of unease began to wind its way through the fatigue clouding his thoughts.
"Maybe it's from Aunty Summer," he muttered to himself, not entirely convinced but needing some explanation, no matter how improbable.
The thought brought with it a reluctant smile—crooked and wary—along with a flicker of warmth at the possibility of something familiar behind the strangeness. Aunty Summer was… complicated. She was his mother's sister—or at least, that was how she'd introduced herself years ago. He had no reason to doubt it, but somehow, the exact truth of their connection always seemed blurred, elusive.
Their relationship was a strange, tangled thing. Aunty Summer had a way of appearing out of nowhere, always with an apology on her lips and a story that never quite made sense. She was wild, spontaneous, unpredictable—everything his mother was not. His mother, for all her long shifts and constant calls, moved through life with calm precision. She was steady, measured, the kind of woman who never raised her voice or misplaced her keys.
Summer was her opposite in every way. Her energy was unfiltered, her movements always a step too fast or too clumsy. She was the type to knock over a vase while explaining how careful she'd been. Her life felt like a series of unfinished stories—half-told tales of missed trains, forgotten birthdays, and the occasional cryptic warning delivered with a smirk that hinted she knew more than she let on.
Despite the chaos, she had a knack for showing up at just the right time—usually when Sawyer was at his most overwhelmed. She'd barge in, carrying plastic bags from the discount store and rambling about the universe sending her signs. And though she exasperated him, a part of him had grown used to her unpredictability.
Still, the idea of her sending a gift was... strange. It wasn't like her to plan ahead. And stranger still, the name on the package wasn't his. Not exactly. That minor detail left a sour taste in his mouth—one he couldn't quite explain.
He looked down at the box again, his fingers tightening slightly around it.
"Why not just write my name?" he whispered.
But of course, the box offered no answer.
⁕
After his mother's untimely passing, something in Sawyer had fractured.
It wasn't just grief—it was deeper than that. It was as if the ground beneath his feet had vanished, leaving him suspended in a quiet, invisible fall. Her absence wasn't just noticeable—it was deafening. The home they'd shared felt colder, emptier, like the walls themselves had gone silent without her laughter, her footsteps, the soft hum of her voice drifting from the kitchen in the mornings. Every corner held her shadow. Every scent, every sound—or lack thereof—reminded him that she was gone.
And then there was Aunty Summer.
Once, she had been a wild splash of color in his structured, somewhat lonely world. Her visits, though irregular, had been moments of chaos and light, full of absurd stories, unexpected gifts, and the kind of unpredictable love that came with too many apologies and too little explanation. She had always felt like someone arriving from a different world, bringing with her the scent of strange places and rushed goodbyes.
But after the funeral, she vanished.
No calls.
No visits.
No explanation.
Just silence.
It wasn't completely out of character for her, but it hurt in a way he hadn't prepared for. He had expected her to show up—to hold his hand, to cry with him, to remind him, even in her messy way, that he wasn't alone in the world. Instead, she disappeared like smoke after a fire, leaving behind nothing but unanswered questions and a mailbox that stayed empty.
The void she left wasn't the same as the one his mother's death had created. It was colder. Sharper. Like a betrayal dressed in the skin of disappointment.
And now… this box.
"Well, it would be undeniably strange to receive a mail from her now," he muttered, almost under his breath. The words tasted bitter, even as a flicker of curiosity sparked in the back of his mind. It danced there restlessly, like a moth hovering near a flame.
He glanced at the label again, his brow furrowing. Was it possible she was reaching out after all this time? Was this her way of saying something she'd never had the courage to speak aloud?
"But curiosity," he added with a half-hearted chuckle, "has a tendency to get the better of one."
His voice echoed faintly off the corridor walls.
He resumed walking, turning toward the staff changing room at the end of the hall. The box, though not physically large, felt heavier with every step. Not in mass, but in meaning.
His arms tightened slightly around it, as if bracing for whatever truth might be sealed inside. The smooth floor beneath his shoes seemed to stretch endlessly, and the usual clinical brightness of the hospital lights now felt strangely oppressive.
Each footfall echoed louder than it should have. Each breath, sharper.
He wasn't sure why, but something about this moment—the silence, the wrong name on the box, the timing—felt like the beginning of something.
Something that wouldn't be easy to walk away from.
He had to use the side of his foot to push the door open, the toe of his shoe nudging against the worn edge of the changing room door as it creaked slowly inward. His hands were full—both arms awkwardly wrapped around the box, which had grown more cumbersome with each step. It wasn't just that it was bulky. The shape was strange, uneven, difficult to grip properly. It seemed to shift slightly in his grasp, like something inside was moving... or breathing.
Sawyer frowned, adjusting his hold with a quiet grunt. His arms ached from the effort, and a fine sheen of sweat was beginning to form at his brow despite the hospital's controlled air. Was it just fatigue making the box feel heavier? Or was it genuinely growing heavier, second by second, like some unseen pressure was adding to its weight?
He shook his head and exhaled sharply, trying to cast the thought aside. It had been a long shift. Maybe too long. His body was tired, but his mind—his overthinking, overworked mind—was worse. It had a habit of turning the simplest things into puzzles or threats when he was exhausted.
Still, something about the box tugged at the edge of his nerves.
As he crossed the room, his steps slowed. His senses sharpened, honing in on the sound of his own footsteps echoing softly across the tiled floor, the low hum of the hospital lights above, and the erratic thump of his own heartbeat.
"Please," he muttered under his breath, "don't let this be some sick joke."
The very idea unsettled him. In today's world, nothing felt too far-fetched anymore. What if it was a prank? Something dangerous hidden inside? A makeshift bomb? It seemed ridiculous—paranoid even—but so did a package addressed to Reid landing in his hands without explanation.
His pulse ticked upward as he approached the wooden bench by the row of lockers. It was old and worn, the wood slightly splintered on the edges, the varnish long faded. He placed the box down with deliberate care, as though it might break or bite if he moved too fast.
And then he just stood there for a moment, staring at it.
The cheerful red wrapping paper, so bright and festive, now looked garish under the sterile white light. He reached for the edge, fingers hesitating before peeling it back. The paper crinkled and tore with a sound far too loud for the silence around him.
Underneath was not the expected cardboard, but cold metal.
An old, rusted box revealed itself, its surface dull and smeared with years of dust and grime. The metal looked weathered, ancient even, as though it had been hidden away in a damp attic for decades. Strange symbols were etched into it—elegant and deliberate, yet utterly alien. The designs curled and twisted like vines in the shadows, their sharp lines catching just enough light to suggest movement.
He leaned in unconsciously, brows drawn together. The symbols didn't stay still. They seemed to shimmer faintly, as though alive—shifting ever so slightly when he wasn't looking directly at them.
A sudden chill slid down his spine.
There was no breeze, no draft in the room. And yet he felt it—a slow, creeping cold pressing against the back of his neck like fingers made of ice.
Then the glow came.
A soft, deep red pulse, barely visible, like embers hiding beneath a thick layer of ash. It pulsed once... then again. Steady. Subtle. But unmistakable.
Sawyer blinked. Rubbed his eyes.
It had to be his imagination—just a trick of the light, a shadow, something catching the reflection of the overhead bulb.
Or maybe he was just exhausted. He hadn't slept properly in almost two days. The night shifts had begun to blur into each other, stealing time from him, eroding his sense of what was real and what wasn't.
He stared at the box a little longer, reluctant to touch it again, but unable to tear his gaze away.
Whatever this was… it wasn't normal.
And it definitely wasn't just a gift.
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Notes:The hospital gift shop would like to remind patrons that all deliveries should be clearly labeled with the recipient's full and correct name to avoid… unusual situations. We are not responsible for the contents of mysterious, red-wrapped boxes.