There are two types of nurses: ones who believe in ghosts, and ones who are lying.
We don’t talk about it much, especially now that the war is over. There’s not much to say, and no one wants to remember. Most of the time you can feel it more than see it when we’re together, this collective haunting, invisible guests at the dinner table. Most of the time we just sit in silence and stare off at a stranger and try to remember where we’ve seen them before. Was it the operating table? A hospital bed? The morgue?
You do this kind of thing for years and soon enough everyone becomes a ghost of someone, somewhere. Most of the time we don’t say anything.
But sometimes we get drunk.