The Waiting Room

Margot sat in the sterile hospital corridor, her fingers knotting around the brim of her father's fedora. She'd rescued it from the donation box—until this morning, it had sat on his closet shelf for twenty years, collecting memories like dust. Now she wore it, feeling ridiculous and comforted all at once, as if the weight of his absence could be balanced by something so small.

A stray cat wound around her ankles, its gray coat matted with indifference. Margot had seen it here every day this week—somehow it slipped in through automatic doors that couldn't close fast enough, wandering the oncology ward like it owned the place. She'd begun leaving crackers in her pocket, and now it expected her. God, she was running out of things to give.

"Mrs. Chen?" The nurse appeared, clipboard at the ready. Her expression was practiced—kind without being encouraging. "The doctor can see you now."

The cat bolted at the sound of footsteps, disappearing behind a vending machine that hummed with mechanical patience. Margot stood up, adjusting the hat, wondering what she was running toward anymore. Her father had been dead six months. She wasn't here for a diagnosis. She was here because the waiting room felt more honest than her apartment, where his clothes still hung in the closet and his voice still echoed on the answering machine.

She was running out of time to let him go. That was the diagnosis.

The nurse waited, pen hovering.

Margot touched the hat's crown. "Actually," she said, "I think I'll wait a little longer."

Outside, autumn leaves skittered across the pavement, and somewhere a church bell struck the hour. She sat back down, and the cat returned, settling beside her with a sigh that sounded almost like understanding.