I walked out of the boardroom and down the long, carpeted corridor.

The air in the administrative wing felt cold and sterile.

I took the elevator down to the main floor, the mechanical hum grounding me.

When the doors opened, the familiar sounds of Harborview washed over me.

I heard the distant beep of heart monitors, the squeak of rubber soles on linoleum, and the quiet murmur of nurses at the station.

I walked past the pediatric unit, looking through the glass partitions.

In one room, a little boy was asleep, a stuffed bear tucked under his arm.

In another, a mother was rocking her infant daughter, humming a soft tune.

A tight knot in my chest, one I hadn’t realized I was holding for years, finally began to loosen.

I walked out of the hospital’s sliding glass doors and into the cool afternoon air.

The Boston sky was grey, filled with heavy, low-hanging clouds that threatened rain.

A sharp wind blew off the harbor, carrying the scent of salt and damp asphalt.

I walked to my car, my keys clutched tightly in my hand.