On her second week, she’d paused over the chart. The sedative dose hadn’t budged, despite no signs of agitation or seizures. No one had reviewed it. The nutrition logs were static, physician visits sparse. Vitals were recorded but never analyzed. The speech therapist, scheduled weekly, hadn’t appeared once. No urgency, no concern—just cold nods and reminders to follow protocol. Hannah had seen negligence before, but this felt deliberate.
That evening, she brought her worn copy of The Alchemist, a book her mother used to read when their Brooklyn apartment felt too heavy. She flipped through its pages as she spoke to Ethan.
— You probably think this book’s sappy, she said softly, setting it down.
— I mean, you’re a hotel magnate—deals, contracts, bottom lines. But I love it. It’s about chasing dreams, finding meaning in the small stuff.
She checked his pulse again—steady, strong.
— You know, I asked Dr. Reynolds about your sedative dose yesterday. He brushed me off, said it was per family request. No changes, no taper, just keep it steady.
Her voice sharpened with frustration.
— I became a nurse to help people heal, not keep them trapped.
She stood, pressing a hand to the window’s cool glass.
— I don’t know who you are, Ethan, but I’m starting to think you’re more awake than anyone wants to believe.
Her fingers tightened into a fist.
— I’m tweaking your protocol. Nothing big, just enough to avoid red flags. I know how to cover my tracks, and if anyone asks, I’ll take the blame.
She returned to her notebook, scribbling in a second log hidden in her locker—a true record of meds, reflexes, vitals, and her suspicions. She didn’t see Ethan’s eyes shift slightly beneath their lids.
At midnight, Hannah returned with a thermos of lavender tea and a blanket over her shoulders.
— I should go home, she whispered,
— but sleep’s not coming tonight.
She sat, pulling out The Alchemist, but closed it after a moment. Instead, she spoke, her words spilling like a confession.
— I wasn’t supposed to be your nurse, you know. I was a last-minute replacement. The original nurse bailed, and I didn’t ask why. I thought it was luck—an assignment that paid enough to chip away at my loans, maybe get my license clear. But now…
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees.
— I overheard Margaret in the hallway. She thought I was on break. She said, ‘We just need to keep him sedated until it’s finalized.’ Lucas nodded like it was nothing.
Her hands trembled.
— I came here to help, but now I’m scared I was hired to… to help someone die.
She looked at Ethan, his face unchanged.
— I don’t know if you hear me, but I had to say it. I won’t do it. I won’t be part of something evil.
She touched his hand lightly.
— I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m with you, awake or not. You’re not alone.
She left, the door closing softly. A single tear slid from Ethan’s eye. He wasn’t alone. And maybe he wouldn’t have to hide much longer.
Hannah said nothing to the doctors, the director, or the Caldwells. But every night, she talked to Ethan—stories of her nursing school days, patients who shaped her, shifts that broke her, small acts of kindness that kept her going. She spoke of her father, a reserved electrician who believed good deeds didn’t need applause, just persistence.
Ethan listened. He couldn’t move much, couldn’t speak, but he heard her truth. In a world that taught him to trust no one, Hannah Brooks spoke like someone who still believed in people. She arrived earlier each night, stayed longer, and began subtle neurological tests—pinches to his palm, pressure on his eyelids, sensory cues.
One evening, adjusting his blanket, she leaned close.
— Ethan, if you can hear me, give me a sign. Anything.
Silence. She sighed, shaking her head.
— Maybe I’m just hoping for something that’s not there.
Then his index finger twitched, a faint, deliberate curl. Hannah froze, eyes wide, breath caught.
— Did you just…?
Another slow curl. She covered her mouth, stunned.
— Oh my God.
She stood, nearly toppling the stool.
— You can hear me. Ethan, you’ve been listening this whole time, haven’t you?
She reached for his hand, tears in her eyes.
— Okay, we’re doing this slow. One finger for yes, nothing for no. Got it?
A pause. Another curl.
— This is crazy, she laughed, shaky but joyful.
— No one’s going to believe this, but I do. I believe you.
Everything changed. Their routine became a secret language—one twitch, one blink, one squeeze. Yes, no, maybe. Hannah brought flashcards, an alphabet chart. It was slow, sometimes maddening, but Ethan pushed himself. She was patient, warm, never rushing him, never treating his limits as burdens.