The Stoneman’s Reprieve

The night air in the city of Crayford was thick with the smell of rain and exhaust. I was admitted to St. Jude’s Hospital after a car accident left me with a fractured pelvis and internal bleeding. The ER was packed, so they transferred me to the oncology wing, a place I knew all too well. Four years earlier, my father had died in room 412, just four doors down from where I was now placed, room 416.

My roommate was an elderly man named Edgar, with a weathered face and hands like gnarled roots. He was in remission from a rare bone cancer, and he said he felt better than he had in years. We talked for hours, mostly about baseball and the old woodworking shop he used to run. He had a calm, steady voice that made the beeping machines almost bearable.

On my third day, as I was preparing to leave, I told Edgar I hoped his cancer never came back. He gave me a slow, knowing smile, and said, ‘Son, I’m more worried about you.’ I laughed it off, but his eyes held a strange glint.

As I signed my discharge papers at the nurse’s station, I glanced back at the room. Edgar’s bed was empty. The sheets were rumpled, but he was gone. I asked the nurse where he had gone, thinking he’d been moved or gone for a scan. She looked at me with a puzzled frown. ‘Edgar? He passed away early this morning, around 3 AM. We tried to keep it quiet until the family arrived.’

I froze. I had been awake at 3 AM, wandering the hallway because my pain meds had worn off. I distinctly remembered seeing Edgar sitting up in his bed, waving at me. I even called out, ‘Can’t sleep either?’ and he nodded. That was at 3:15.

On my way out, I stopped by room 412. The door was ajar, and I saw a new patient, a young woman, hooked up to monitors. I felt a cold draft and heard a faint creak, like a rocking chair on a wooden porch. It was the sound Edgar had described making in his shop, his ‘rocking chair for the grandkids.’ I left quickly.

A week later, I received a letter from the hospital, addressed in shaky handwriting. Inside was a single photograph: an old, ornate stone statue of a saint, with the name ‘Edgar’ carved at the base. On the back was written: ‘I’ve found my workshop again. Don’t let the night nurse fool you.’

Now, every time I pass a stone statue, I feel a strange pull, and I sometimes hear a faint tapping, like wood on stone. I no longer tell people I hope to see them again. I just say, ‘May the stone not weigh heavy.’ I’m still not sure what it means, but I know Edgar’s smile wasn’t one of relief. It was one of welcome.