Curiosity tugged at him. He stepped closer and peeked inside. On the bed lay a woman who looked like a princess from his bedtime stories, trapped in endless sleep. But what struck him wasn’t her beauty—it was the loneliness filling the room.
Ethan didn’t know what a coma was. He didn’t understand tragedy or millionaires. He only saw someone who seemed alone. And in his simple reasoning, he thought maybe she needed sound instead of silence.
He lifted the harmonica to his lips.
The first note cut sharply through the air.
It wasn’t polished music. It was uneven, breathy, the eager melody of a child experimenting. The bright tones clashed with the steady beep of monitors. Encouraged, Ethan played louder, forming a cheerful tune meant to wake a sleeping princess.
At the nurses’ station, Head Nurse Claire jerked upright. “What is that noise?” she muttered, marching toward Room 514.
She burst in, ready to scold whoever had broken the sacred quiet—but stopped short.
The boy stood near the bed, playing with closed eyes. Claire moved to grab him, then froze.
Margaret’s right hand twitched.