The fluorescent lights hummed above as I sat in the hospital waiting room, flipping through a stack of forms. My eyes caught on an admission chart left on the desk, and there it was, my husband’s name—Thomas Arnett—listed as the emergency contact for a woman I didn’t recognize. I blinked, adjusting my grip on the pen as I tried to process the connection. The nurse at the counter was busy with paperwork, her expression neutral as she moved between tasks.
« Do you need any help with those? » she asked, her tone polite but distant. I shook my head, trying to keep my voice steady. « No, thank you, » I replied, the words coming out more calmly than I felt.
The chart was marked with today’s date, and the room number was 204. I glanced at the hallway leading further inside, my curiosity piqued and my heart pounding. There was more to this, and I needed to know what it meant.
Adjusting my coat, I stood up, leaving the forms as they were. I felt the nurse’s eyes follow me as I made my way down the corridor, the sound of my own footsteps echoing in the quiet space.
The air was sterile, filled with the distant sounds of medical equipment and hushed conversations. Room 204 was just a few doors down, the number etched into the frosted glass panel beside it.
Taking a deep breath, I knocked softly, my mind racing. What if I was wrong? What if this was some bizarre coincidence?
But as the door opened slowly, revealing a woman lying in the hospital bed, I knew that there was no mistake. Her eyes met mine, filled with a mixture of confusion and recognition.
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