“Call an ambulance,” said a voice in his head, and Jack glanced around.
This story was told to me by a friend.
It often happens that someone tells us of a miracle they’ve experienced, and we don’t believe them. We nod along, but secretly think it must be made-up—a fantasy, a dream, wishful thinking. Miracles? Angels? God? Old wives’ tales, nothing more. Where do miracles even come from in this mad, fast-paced digital age? And why would one random bloke get a miracle while the rest of us don’t? Maybe I’d believe if it happened to me.
That’s exactly how Jack, a twenty-eight-year-old IT worker, used to think. He lived with his mother, Margaret. His father had passed when Jack was ten. Marriage wasn’t a priority—he was seeing a quiet girl named Emily. First, he wanted to buy a flat so he could bring a wife home properly. Renting? No need to rush. Besides, he wasn’t keen on leaving his mum alone.
A bit old-fashioned by modern standards, perhaps. Then, one afternoon, his mother called—something she never did unless it was serious.
“Jack,” her voice was weak, shaking. “I’ve broken my leg. It hurts so much—I can’t move.”
“Where are you?” Jack shot up from his chair, heart racing.
“Outside Tesco. I’ve already called an ambulance. Just wanted to tell you, in case—”
“Mum, I’m on my way!” He bolted out the door.
Another call came as he was driving. The hospital was taking her to A&E. Jack turned the car around. When he arrived, she’d already been taken into surgery. He waited hours in the corridor.
“Come back tomorrow,” the surgeon said. “We’ll move her from recovery to a ward.”
The sun was setting when Jack left. He stopped at a shop to pick up juice and fruit for his mum. On the way out, he noticed a woman stumbling past, unsteady on her feet. Odd—she looked respectable, middle-aged, but clearly drunk. He reached his car, then glanced back.
She swayed, arm outstretched as if searching for support, then collapsed onto the pavement. Jack ran over.
He set the bag down, crouched beside her, called out—no response. He leaned in. No alcohol on her breath. What now? He knew nothing about medicine. No one else was around.
“Can you hear me?” He tapped her cheeks lightly.
*It’s no use. Call an ambulance. Lift her head—support it with something.* The voice in his head was so clear, Jack actually looked around.
But the street was empty, save for a man walking a terrier in the distance. Too far to be heard. And the woman was unconscious—she couldn’t have spoken.
He dialed 999, explained the situation.
*Tell them it’s a stroke. Hurry.*
Jack glanced around again, then repeated it into the phone. Must be his own thoughts, he reasoned.
*Now lift her head—gently.*
No cushion in sight. Jack yanked off his jumper, folded it beneath her head, then waited, praying the ambulance would hurry.
*Rub her ears—hard.*
He did, until they flushed red. Whether that helped or not, by the time sirens wailed in the distance, her eyelids fluttered.
*Thank God, she’s coming round.* Jack exhaled in relief.
Two women from the shop hurried over, then others gathered, murmuring advice. The paramedics arrived, loaded her onto a stretcher.
“Stroke?” Jack asked.
“Looks like it. Are you a doctor?”
“No. I just… called you.”
“You did everything right, even elevating her head. Might’ve saved her.” The paramedic climbed into the ambulance.
“Which hospital?” Jack called out pointlessly.
“Royal London.” The doors shut, and the ambulance sped off.
The crowd dispersed. Jack shook out his jumper and pulled it back on. The bag of shopping was gone—probably snatched in the chaos. “No matter,” he muttered, heading to his car.
At home, he couldn’t eat. What *was* that voice? People talk to themselves, sure, but never like this—never so *directive*. Normally, he’d act first, think later. And diagnosing a stroke? He barely knew what that *was*. If he told anyone, they’d say he’d lost it—too much coding, not enough sleep.
He lay in the dark, trying to summon the voice again. Nothing. Just his own scattered thoughts. On the street, it had been *clear*. “Going mad,” he muttered. No answer.
“Maybe *she* was a psychic or something.” That explanation satisfied him enough to sleep.
The next day, he visited his mum. She fussed over him eating properly, now that she couldn’t cook. “Don’t live on crisps,” she scolded. He reassured her, then left—but instead of going home, he found himself at the hospital’s front desk.
“A woman was brought in last night. Stroke,” he said.
The nurse redirected him to records. As he queued, he wondered why he was even here. He’d done his part—called the ambulance.
“Patricia Miller,” the clerk said. “Neurology, third floor, Ward Seven. No visitors yet.”
Jack wasn’t planning to visit. He didn’t know *why* he’d asked.
The voice never returned. Must’ve been stress.
His mum improved, slowly walking with crutches. Weeks later, passing the neurology ward, he paused. *Does anyone visit that Patricia?* Something nudged him inside.
The ward was full of elderly women. He hesitated in the doorway.
“Who’re you here for, love?” one asked.
“Patricia Miller.” His eyes scanned the room.
“Over here,” a voice rasped by the window.
He approached.
“You’re a friend of David’s?” she asked, words slow but clear. The left side of her mouth sagged slightly.
“I don’t know David. I’m the one who called the ambulance when you collapsed.”
A faint nod. “I saw you.”
“How? You were unconscious.”
“You were standing next to my son. He spoke to you.”
Goosebumps prickled Jack’s arms. *She’s lost it.*
“My son was in a car crash. Coma.” Her voice wavered. “When I heard, I… my head spun. Next thing I knew, I saw David—and you beside him. I thought he’d woken up. But he hadn’t.” She met his eyes. “If you don’t mind… could you light a candle for him? At the church? And one for your mum too.”
Jack had never set foot in a church. Always thought it was for pensioners or the daft. The echo of his steps on stone floors felt surreal. An old woman at the candle stall helped him scribble names—Patricia, David, Margaret—then pointed to the right icon.
He stood before it, thoughts racing. No idea how to pray. Finally, he focused. *Let Patricia recover. Let David wake. Let Mum’s leg heal.* Almost added, *And let me buy that flat to marry Emily in,* but stopped himself—greedy.
The thoughts stilled. He left feeling lighter, sure things would work out.
He told his mum about Patricia. They became friends. Three days after Jack lit the candle, David woke.
Two months later, Emily’s parents offered to help buy the flat. “No point waiting,” they said. “Marry her, give us grandkids.”
Jack asked David if he’d seen anything during the coma—if he’d spoken. David just shook his head.
Eventually, Jack stopped puzzling over it. He couldn’t *actually* have heard a coma patient’s voice. Must’ve imagined it. He never told Emily. Or anyone.
