He didn't sleep.
Every time he closed his eyes, the apartment breathed. Floors creaked without weight. Shadows stretched, then settled, as if disappointed he was still awake.
Morning came without relief.
Grey light slipped through the curtains, cold and lifeless. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the ultrasound photo now placed back exactly where it had been before.
Someone had returned it.
That thought sat heavy in his chest.
His phone vibrated.
Once.
He froze.
Then again.
A message.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
Go to the hospital.
His jaw tightened.
"No," he said aloud.
Another vibration.
You want answers. That's where the first one is waiting.
His fingers hovered over the screen.
This isn't faith, he typed. This is harassment.
The reply came instantly.
Faith waits. Truth knocks.
He swallowed.
The hospital.
The place he had sworn never to return to. The smell. The corridors. The room where silence had swallowed everything.
He stood anyway.
The hospital looked the same.
Too clean. Too bright. Too calm for a place that stole futures.
As he walked through the entrance, a wave of nausea hit him. Memories pressed in—machines beeping, doctors avoiding eye contact, the moment hope quietly left the room.
His phone vibrated again.
Third floor. Records office.
He stopped walking.
"How do you know I'm here?" he whispered.
No reply.
That was worse.
He took the stairs.
Each step felt like trespassing—not just into a building, but into something buried on purpose.
The records office was nearly empty. One woman sat behind the desk, typing slowly, bored.
He approached.
"I need medical records," he said. His voice was steadier than he felt.
She glanced up. "Name?"
He told her.
Her fingers paused.
Then resumed.
She frowned.
"That's strange."
His heart rate spiked. "What?"
"Some files are missing," she said. "Not deleted. Just… locked."
"Locked by who?"
She hesitated. "I can't see that."
His phone buzzed.
Ask for file 317-B.
He stared at the screen.
Slowly, he looked back at the woman. "What about file 317-B?"
Her face drained of color.
"Who told you about that?" she asked sharply.
"I—"
"You shouldn't know that number," she said, lowering her voice. "That file doesn't exist."
The lights flickered.
Once.
Her computer screen blinked.
Then unlocked.
She stared at it, confused. "That's… not possible."
On the screen was a file.
PATIENT: LENA ——
STATUS: SEALED
His throat burned.
"Open it," he said.
"I can't," she whispered. "If I do—"
His phone buzzed again.
This is the knock.
He leaned forward. "Please."
She looked at him for a long moment, fear and conflict warring on her face.
Then she clicked.
The screen filled with text.
Her eyes widened.
"Oh my God," she breathed.
"What?" he demanded.
She shook her head. "This… this says there was an intervention order."
His heart slammed. "What kind of intervention?"
She scrolled.
Her hand trembled.
"An order to delay treatment," she said quietly. "To wait."
Wait.
The word echoed in his skull.
"To wait for what?" he asked.
She swallowed. "For authorization."
"From who?"
Before she could answer, the screen went black.
Every monitor in the office shut down at once.
The lights flickered violently—then steadied.
The woman stared at the dead screen, breathing fast. "You need to leave," she said urgently. "Now."
His phone buzzed one last time.
You see now.
This wasn't silence.
It was permission.
His stomach dropped.
"What do you want from me?" he whispered.
The reply came slow this time.
Nothing.
Yet.
He turned and walked away, legs heavy, mind burning.
As he stepped outside into the daylight, one truth settled deep in his chest, heavy and irreversible.
He hadn't been abandoned.
He had been ignored.
And someone had decided that was acceptable.