“Call an ambulance,” came a voice in his head, and Jake glanced around.
This was a story told to me by a mate.
You know how it is—someone tells you about some miracle that happened to them, and you don’t believe it? You nod along, but secretly think they’ve made it up, imagined it, or confused a dream for reality. Miracles? Angels? God? All just old wives’ tales, not worth believing.
And where would miracles even come from in this mad, fast-paced digital age? Why would some random bloke get a miracle when the rest of us don’t? If it ever happened to me, maybe then I’d believe.
That’s exactly what twenty-eight-year-old Jake thought. He lived with his mum, Margaret. His dad had passed when Jake was ten. He wasn’t in a hurry to get married—just dated a quiet girl named Emma. Once he bought a flat, then he’d settle down. No point rushing—two women in one kitchen never ended well. Renting? Why bother? And he didn’t want to leave his mum alone.
Bit old-fashioned by modern standards, really. Worked in IT—your typical tech guy. One day, mid-shift, his mum rang. She never called unless something was wrong. So Jake picked up straight away.
“Love,” her voice was weak, shaky. “I’ve gone and broken my leg. Hurts so much—can’t even move.”
“Where are you?” Jake shot up from his chair, heart hammering.
“Outside Tesco. Called an ambulance already. Just wanted you to know, in case…”
“Mum, I’m on my way!” Jake bolted.
Another call came as he was driving—they were taking her to the city hospital. Jake swung the car around. By the time he got there, she was already in surgery. Hours later, the surgeon finally came out.
“Come back tomorrow—we’ll move her out of ICU then.”
Sunset painted the sky as Jake left the hospital. Stopped at the shop for juice and fruit for his mum. Walking back to his car, he spotted a woman stumbling past. Middle-class, middle-aged—clearly drunk, Jake thought. Shook his head, reached his car, then glanced back.
The woman staggered, reached for support, found none—and collapsed on the pavement. Jake didn’t think—just ran.
Dropped his shopping, crouched beside her. Shook her shoulders, no response. Leaned closer—no smell of booze. Now what? He knew zip about first aid. No one else around.
“Can you hear me? You alright?” He patted her cheeks.
*Won’t help. Call an ambulance, lift her head—use something soft.* The voice in his head was so clear, Jake looked around.
Empty street. Just some bloke walking a spaniel in the distance—too far to hear. And the woman was out cold.
Jake dialled 999, explained.
*Tell them it’s a stroke. Hurry.*
Again, the voice. Jake’s neck prickled. Repeated it to the operator. Maybe he was just talking to himself?
*Now lift her head—gently.*
No cushions handy. Jake yanked off his jumper, folded it under her head. Waited, praying for sirens.
*Rub her ears—hard.*
Jake did, till they flushed red. Whether that worked or not, her eyelids fluttered as sirens wailed closer.
*Thank God, she’s coming round.*
Two nosy women from the shop ambled over, then a small crowd.
Ambulance arrived. Paramedics swarmed, loaded her onto a stretcher.
“Stroke?” Jake asked.
“Looks like. You a doctor?”
“No, I just—called it in.”
“You did right, even propped her head. Might’ve saved her.” The medic jumped in, doors slammed, and the ambulance tore off.
“Which hospital?” Jake shouted pointlessly.
“City General!”
Crowd dispersed. Jake shook out his jumper, went to grab his shopping—gone. Probably nicked by some busybody. “Ah well, get more tomorrow.”
At home, he barely ate. Kept replaying that voice. Never had thoughts so clear, so commanding before. Usually, he acted first, thought after. And diagnosing a stroke? No way he’d know that.
Tried summoning the voice again—nothing. Just his own scrambled thoughts. “Going barmy, hearing voices now.” He snorted. No reply.
“Must’ve been her—some psychic or witch.” Satisfied with that shaky logic, he finally slept.
Next day, visited his mum. She fussed over him fending for himself—”You’ll live on toast, I know you!”—while he assured her he’d manage.
On his way out, something made him stop at reception.
“Had a woman come in last night—stroke, middle-aged?”
The nurse sent him to records. Queuing, he wondered why he bothered. He’d done his bit. Still, when his turn came:
“Patricia Wilkins. Neurology ward, third floor, room seven. No visitors yet.”
Jake hadn’t planned to visit. No idea why he’d asked.
Days passed, no more voices. Just stress playing tricks, he decided.
Mum improved, started hobbling on crutches. Jake visited daily. Once, passing the neurology ward, he paused. *Does anyone visit Patricia? How’s she doing?*
Like a nudge, he walked in.
Room seven held four elderly women. Jake hovered.
“Who’re you here for, love?” one asked.
“Patricia Wilkins.”
“Over here.” A frail woman by the window.
Jake approached.
“You’re Daniel’s friend?” Her words slurred slightly, left side of her mouth slack.
Jake blinked. He’d expected her near death—not talking.
“Don’t know Daniel. I called the ambulance when you collapsed.”
She nodded faintly.
“I saw you.”
*Impossible.* Jake frowned. “You were unconscious.”
“You were standing next to my son. He spoke to you.”
Jake’s spine iced over. She must be delirious.
“My son’s in a coma. Car crash. When I heard, I—” Her voice wavered. “Got dizzy, everything went black. Next thing, I saw Daniel… and you beside him. Thought he’d woken up. But he’s still…” She gripped the sheets.
“If you need anything, let me know. I’m here most days—my mum’s in orthopaedics.”
“Just… light a candle for Daniel at church. And your mum too.”
Jake had never set foot in a church. Thought it was for pensioners and nutters. But Sunday morning found him in St. Mary’s, echoing footsteps and all.
A tiny old lady at the candle stall helped him scribble names—Daniel for health, his mum Margaret for healing. Hesitated, then added nothing for himself. No pushing his luck.
Stood before the icon, thoughts racing. Not a prayer in sight. Finally, just repeated silently: *Patricia better. Daniel wake up. Mum’s leg heal.*
Left feeling oddly calm, like he’d done something right.
Told his mum about Patricia—soon they were visiting together. Three days after the church, Daniel woke up.
Two months later, Emma’s parents offered to top up their flat fund. “You’ve waited long enough—marry the girl, give us grandkids!”
Jake asked Daniel if he’d seen anything during the coma—if he’d somehow *been* there when Jake helped his mum. Daniel just shrugged.
Eventually, Jake stopped puzzling over it. Couldn’t have really spoken to a coma patient, heard his voice. Just his mind playing tricks. Never mentioned it, not even to Emma.
