Carlos had cleaned the oncology wing for fifteen years. He knew every sound, every smell.
But Room 417 was different.
Every night, fresh flowers. Roses. Lilies. Always replaced. Always arranged carefully on the windowsill. Yet the patient inside never had visitors listed.
One night, Carlos finally asked the nurse.
“There is no family,” she said. “Hasn’t been for months.”
When Carlos entered the room later, the bed was empty.
Too empty.
The patient had passed earlier that evening. Quietly. Alone.
The flowers, it turned out, came from a volunteer who’d been stopping by after work—someone who never signed in, never stayed long, just refused to let anyone die unseen.
Carlos kept the flowers there one more night.
Some kindness doesn’t need a name.