“Call an ambulance,” said a voice in his head, and James glanced around.
This story was told to me by a friend.
It often happens—someone tells us about a miracle they experienced, and we don’t believe them. We listen, nod, but inside, we’re thinking it couldn’t possibly be true. Made up, imagined, a dream, wishful thinking. Miracles? Angels? God? Just old wives’ tales, not worth believing.
And where would miracles come from in this fast-paced digital age? Why would some random bloke get a miracle while the rest of us don’t? If something like that ever happened to me, maybe I’d believe.
That’s exactly what James, a twenty-eight-year-old IT worker, used to think. He lived with his mother, Margaret. His father had passed when James was ten. Marriage wasn’t on his mind—he was seeing a quiet girl named Emily. First, he wanted to buy a flat, then settle down. No point rushing. Two women in one kitchen? A recipe for disaster. Renting? Why bother? And he wasn’t in a hurry to leave his mum alone.
Old-fashioned, by modern standards.
One afternoon, his mum called—something she never did unless it was serious. Her voice was weak, shaky.
“Son… I’ve broken my leg. I can’t move. It’s agony.”
“Where are you?” James shot up from his chair.
“Near the Tesco. I’ve already called an ambulance. Just wanted to let you know, in case—”
“I’m on my way!”
Another call came as he was driving. The ambulance was taking her to the city hospital. James turned the car around. By the time he got there, she was in surgery. Hours passed before the surgeon finally emerged.
“Come back tomorrow. She’ll be out of recovery by then.”
The sun was setting as James left. He stopped at a shop to pick up juice and fruit for his mum. Outside, he noticed a well-dressed woman stumbling past. “Drunk?” he thought, surprised. But then she swayed, reached for something invisible, and collapsed.
Without hesitation, James rushed over. Kneeling, he checked for a pulse—no response. No smell of alcohol either. “Can you hear me? Are you okay?” He gave her a light slap on the cheeks. Nothing.
**”Call an ambulance. Lift her head—use something soft.”**
The voice was so clear, James looked around. No one nearby, just a bloke walking his spaniel in the distance.
He dialled 999.
**”Tell them it’s a stroke. Hurry.”**
James repeated it to the operator. Maybe he was talking to himself.
**”Now lift her head. Gently.”**
Nothing nearby. He yanked off his jumper, folded it under her head.
**”Rub her ears. Hard.”**
He did until they turned red. Whether it worked or she was coming round on her own, her eyelids fluttered just as sirens wailed closer.
**”Thank God. She’s waking.”**
Bystanders gathered. The paramedics arrived, loaded her up.
“Stroke?” James asked.
“Looks like it. You a doctor?”
“No, I just—called you.”
“You did everything right. Even raised her head. We might’ve caught it in time.”
“Which hospital?”
“Royal Infirmary.”
The ambulance sped off. The crowd dispersed. James pulled his jumper back on. His shopping bag? Gone. Probably nicked by some nosy onlooker. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll get more tomorrow.”
At home, he barely ate. Who—or what—had spoken in his head? People talk to themselves, but this? Never before. No inner voice had ever commanded him.
He lay in the dark, trying to summon the voice again. Nothing. His own thoughts bounced around, but nothing like before. “I’m losing it. Hearing voices now,” he muttered. No reply.
Maybe that woman was special—a psychic? A witch? The idea seemed the least mad. He slept.
The next day, he visited his mum. She was improving, complaining about how she’d managed to break her hip “on flat ground.”
“Don’t worry about me. Just take care of yourself. Or ask Emily to cook. You’ll live on toast otherwise.”
Leaving the ward, James found himself at reception.
“There was a woman brought in last night—stroke. How is she?”
The nurse redirected him to the neurology ward.
Why was he even asking? He’d done his bit.
The clerk told him: “Antonia Miller. Third floor, ward seven. No visitors yet.”
He hadn’t planned to visit. But later, passing the neurology sign, he stopped. “Does anyone visit her? How is she?” Almost pushed, he stepped inside.
The women in the ward were all elderly, frail.
“Who are you here for, love?” someone asked.
“Antonia Miller.” He scanned the room.
A woman by the window raised a hand.
“You’re Michael’s friend?” she asked.
Her speech was slow, slurred—left side of her mouth sagged.
“I don’t know Michael. I called the ambulance when you collapsed.”
She nodded slightly. “I saw you.”
“How? You were unconscious.”
“You stood next to my son. He spoke to you.”
James’s skin prickled.
“My son was in an accident. Coma. When I heard, I nearly lost my mind.” She blinked back tears. “Then… a dizzy spell. Next thing, I saw Michael—and you beside him. I thought he’d woken up. But he’s still under.”
James swallowed. “Need anything? I’m here most days—my mum’s on the ortho ward.”
“Nothing. But if you don’t mind… light a candle for my Michael at church? And one for your mum?”
Church? James had never set foot in one. “Old folks’ nonsense,” he’d always thought.
Yet here he was, steps echoing in the empty building. An old woman at the candle stall guided him: “Write their names here. Light one there.”
James stood before the icon. His mind raced. No prayer came. Finally, he focused: *Antonia, get well. Michael, wake up. Mum’s leg, heal fast.*
Then—greedy, perhaps—he almost asked for a flat where Emily could be the lady of the house. But no. He’d asked enough.
Leaving, he felt calm. Certain everything would be alright.
He told his mum about Antonia. They became friends. Three days after his visit to the church, Michael woke up.
Two months later, Emily’s parents offered to help with the flat deposit. “You’ve waited long enough. Marry her. Give us grandkids.”
James once asked Michael if he’d seen anything—if he’d somehow spoken to him while unconscious. Michael just shrugged.
Eventually, James stopped puzzling over it. Could he really have talked to a man in a coma? He decided it was just his mind playing tricks. After all, the voice never came back. He never told anyone—not even Emily.
