The Ghost of the Journey The steam from the shower still clings to the mirror, a warm shroud that feels like a betrayal of the cold I used to carry. Standing here, dripping and quiet, my mind suddenly performs that old, frantic dance—the "Hospital Dash." I remember the biting wind on the walk home, the way I would scrub the clinical smell from my hair in a race against the clock. A quick change of clothes. A scorched throat from a tea gulped too fast. A blurred glance at the bank balance—counting the cost of devotion in pence and minutes. Then, the breathless rush back to your bedside, as if my presence alone was the only thing keeping the machines humming. I caught myself today, wondering why the ghost of that journey still haunts my morning ritual. You aren't in those sterile corridors anymore. You aren't behind those heavy ward doors where the air tastes of antiseptic and hushed voices. You are so very far away now—in a "there" that no bus route can reac...