Night Ward Nurse White Eyes Smile

She does not check charts. She does not take temperatures. She smiles — a white curve against a black face, the kind of smile that arrives before the diagnosis.

Her eyes are white — two perfect circles, no iris, no pupil, just light that does not come from anywhere in the room. They do not blink. They do not track. They simply witness.

The cap is white, starched, a single black cross on the front. The collar is white, pointed, pressed. Two buttons down the front — white circles on black fabric, like eyes that closed. The ruffles on her shoulders are white, symmetrical, too perfect to be fabric. They do not wrinkle. They do not move.

Her face is black — not skin, not shadow, just the absence that a face should occupy. The white lines trace her hair, her jaw, her smile. She is outline and intention. She is what remains when the patient stops breathing.

97% true black. On OLED, she is a floating cap, a floating smile, two floating eyes. On LCD, she is a nurse in a dark room. The room is the ward. The ward is empty. The ward is not empty.