Days passed faster than the ticking of a clock.
Yet despite the passing of time, everything remained exactly where it had always been.
Waking up.
Going to the hospital.
Putting on the same smiling mask.
Visiting patients.
And returning home.
When every day looks the same as the one before it, you slowly begin to forget that life can still surprise you.
But just when you become convinced that everything has become too repetitive, life catches you off guard with a smile.
The day I saw that smile began exactly like that.
It was the start of the week, and the hospital was busier than usual.
I was walking through the crowded hallways when a scent suddenly caught my attention.
It was so strong that it stopped me in my tracks.
As if someone had just walked past me wearing it.
A sweet floral fragrance with a Mediterranean warmth to it.
I was certain it was Florence.
"Doctor, patient 127 is asking to see you."
A nurse's voice pulled me back to reality.
I glanced over my shoulder for a few seconds but saw nothing.
Then I continued on my way.
I headed toward the elevator that would take me to the seventh floor, where Room 127 was located.
When I stepped inside, it was almost full.
The conversations of a few doctors reached my ears.
"The patients on the ninth floor are really unlucky."
One of them said loudly.
Another shrugged.
"They're all in critical condition. If someone takes their case and the patient dies, who's going to take responsibility?"
For a few seconds, I remained silent.
Then I turned toward them.
"I will."
Everyone looked at me.
"I'll take responsibility."
Silence filled the elevator.
Everyone wanted to save the patients who still had a chance of surviving.
But I was different.
I wanted to help the ones whose chances were slim.
The ones who received fewer visitors every week.
Maybe because I could understand them.
Or maybe because I understood loneliness.
The elevator doors opened and I stepped out.
The moment I entered Corridor Two, I caught the scent again.
This time it was stronger.
As if it had filled the entire hallway.
For a brief moment, curiosity stirred inside me.
A feeling I hadn't experienced in years.
But I ignored it and continued toward Room 127.
When I stopped in front of the door, the fragrance grew even stronger.
I placed my hand on the doorknob.
"He's talking to his wife. You shouldn't interrupt."
The voice came from behind me.
I quickly turned around.
A little girl, no older than eight, stood there.
Long chestnut-brown hair.
A hospital gown.
And eyes that were far too calm for a child.
"Oh? Then what are you doing here?" I asked.
"This floor is for adults. Are you lost?"
She stared at me for a few seconds.
Then suddenly asked,
"Mister... are you sad about something?"
The question caught me off guard.
"What?"
She smiled.
A bright, sunny smile.
The kind of smile that didn't belong in a hospital.
"You look really sad."
It was only a few words.
Yet somehow they made my heart tremble.
Maybe because of how unexpected they were.
Everyone only saw my smile.
A successful doctor.
A kind physician.
But nobody could see the pain hidden behind it.
Nobody.
Yet this little girl had managed to see something I had spent years trying to hide.
I found myself staring at her without saying a word.
Until she broke the silence herself.
"Your smile looks like the Joker's."
She studied my face for a moment before adding,
"It's kinda scary."
Most children became nervous around doctors.
But this one spoke as if she were talking to an old friend.
She took a few steps backward.
"Anyway, I should go now. Bye, Mr. Fake Smile."
Before I could say anything, she turned and ran off.
And as I watched her disappear down the hallway, I realized something.
I was smiling.
Not out of habit.
Not out of obligation.
A real smile.
Something I had forgotten a long time ago.
And I had no idea why.