“Call an ambulance,” echoed a voice in his head, and James glanced around.
This story was told to me by a friend.
Often, when someone shares a tale of something miraculous that happened to them, we don’t believe it. We nod along while secretly thinking it couldn’t possibly be true. Made up, imagined, dreamed, wishful thinking. Miracles? Angels? God? Just old wives’ tales not worth taking seriously.
And where could miracles come from in this fast-paced, information-crazed age? Why would something like that happen to some random bloke and not the rest of us? Maybe I’d believe if it happened to me.
That’s exactly what twenty-eight-year-old James used to think. He lived with his mother, Margaret. His father had passed when he was ten. James wasn’t in a rush to marry. He was seeing a quiet girl named Emily. He wanted to buy a flat first—somewhere to bring his bride. Two women under one roof never ended well. Rent? No need to hurry. Besides, he wasn’t keen on leaving his mum alone.
Old-fashioned by today’s standards, he worked in IT—just your average tech bloke. One afternoon, his mum called. She never disturbed him at work unless it was serious. He picked up immediately.
“Son,” her voice was weak, teary. “I’ve broken my leg. It hurts so much—I can’t move.”
“Where are you?” James bolted from his chair.
“Outside Tesco. I’ve already called an ambulance. Just wanted to let you know, in case—”
“Mum, I’m coming!” He raced to the car.
Another call came as he drove. They were taking her to the regional hospital. James turned the car around. By the time he arrived, she was already in surgery. He waited in the corridor for hours.
“Come back tomorrow—she’ll be moved from recovery to a ward,” the surgeon said.
The sun was setting when James left. On the way home, he stopped at a shop for juice and fruit. As he left, a woman stumbled past—well-dressed but clearly unsteady. James frowned. Odd to see someone her age drunk at this hour.
He reached his car but glanced back just as she swayed, reached for support, and collapsed. Without hesitation, James ran to her.
He set his bag down, crouched beside her, and called her name. No response. He leaned in—no smell of alcohol. What now? He knew nothing about medicine. No one else was around.
“Can you hear me? Are you alright?” He tapped her cheeks lightly.
*Won’t help. Call an ambulance, lift her head—put something under it,* a voice said so clearly in his mind that James whipped his head around.
No one. Just a man in the distance walking a dog. Too far to hear. And the woman was unconscious.
James dialled 999, explained the situation.
*Tell them it’s a stroke. Hurry.*
Again, the voice. James scanned the area, then repeated the word *stroke* into the phone. Maybe he was just talking to himself.
*Now lift her head. Gently.*
Nothing around to use. James stripped off his jumper, folded it under her head. He waited, praying silently for the ambulance to arrive.
*Rub her ears hard.*
He did until they turned deep red. Whether that helped or not, as the sirens approached, her eyelids fluttered.
*Thank God—she’s coming round.* James exhaled in relief.
Two women emerged from the shop, offering advice. A small crowd gathered.
The ambulance arrived. Paramedics loaded her onto a stretcher.
“Was it a stroke?” James asked.
“Looks like it. Are you a doctor?”
“No. I just… called you.”
“You did everything right—even elevated her head. Got here just in time.” The medic shut the doors, and the ambulance sped off.
“Which hospital?” James called after them.
“Regional!”
The crowd dispersed. James dusted off his jumper and pulled it back on. His shopping bag? Gone. Probably snatched in the commotion. No matter—he’d buy more tomorrow.
At home, he barely ate. Who had spoken in his head? People talk to themselves, but never like that—never in clear commands. Normally, he’d act first, think later. Thoughts scattered, never forming complete directions. He’d heard of strokes but couldn’t diagnose one.
James lay in the dark, trying to summon the voice again. Nothing. Just his own thoughts. Must’ve imagined it.
“Maybe she was some kind of psychic,” he muttered before drifting off.
The next day, he visited his mother in hospital. She fussed over him eating properly, lamenting her own clumsiness.
“Don’t worry, Mum. I’ll manage. Need anything?”
After leaving her, he wandered to reception.
“Was a woman brought in last night? Stroke?”
The nurse directed him to records.
Waiting in line, James questioned himself. Why was he here? He’d done his part.
“Antonia Smith. Neurology, third floor, ward seven. No visitors yet.”
James hadn’t planned on visiting—just… checking.
He listened for the voice again. Nothing. Must’ve been stress.
His mother improved, hobbling on crutches. One day, passing the neurology ward, he stopped.
*Is anyone visiting Antonia? How is she?*
Almost pushed by an unseen force, he entered.
The ward held elderly women, pale, grey-haired. James hesitated.
“Who are you here for?” someone asked.
“Antonia Smith.” He scanned the room.
A woman by the window raised a frail hand.
James approached.
“You’re Michael’s friend?” she slurred slightly, one side of her mouth slack.
“I don’t know Michael. I called the ambulance when you collapsed.”
She nodded weakly.
“I saw you.”
“How? You were unconscious.”
“You stood next to my son. He spoke to you.”
Chills ran down James’ spine. She must be delirious.
“My son was in a coma. When I heard, I nearly lost my mind.” She confirmed his suspicion. “Then my head spun… darkness. Next thing, I saw Michael—and you beside him. I thought he’d woken up. But he’s still in the coma.”
James swallowed. “If you need anything, let me know. My mum’s here too—broken leg. I’ll visit again.”
“Just light a candle for Michael at church. And one for your mum.”
James had never set foot in a church before. Only the uneducated or unstable went there, he’d thought.
The echo of his steps filled the empty space. An elderly lady at the candle stall guided him—how to write names, where to place the candles.
Standing before the icon, his mind raced. Not much of a prayer. He focused.
*Antonia, heal. Michael, wake up. Mum’s leg, mend.*
Should he push his luck? Ask for the flat where Emily would be mistress? No. He stopped there.
His thoughts stilled. He left calm, certain everything would be fine.
James told his mother about Antonia. They became friends. Three days after his church visit, Michael woke from the coma.
Two months later, Emily’s parents offered to help buy the flat. “No point waiting—marry, give us grandkids.”
James tried asking Michael if he’d seen anything while unconscious—if he’d spoken to him. Michael just shrugged.
Eventually, James stopped puzzling over it. Couldn’t have really happened. No voices since. He never mentioned it—not even to Emily.
