It was the end of my shift. I was running on fumes—my feet ached, my brain felt like mush, and I was just trying to finish up my last few notes before heading out.
I decided to do one final round—just a quick check to make sure no supplies were left behind, no loose ends. When I pushed open the door to Exam Room 3, I wasn’t expecting anything unusual.
But there he was.
A little boy—maybe five, maybe six—reclined on the hospital bed like he’d been there all day. Arms tucked behind his head, one leg casually crossed over the other, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it were playing a movie just for him.
No adult in sight. No nurse. No patient chart.
I stopped, unsure of what I was seeing.
He didn’t look scared or lost—just completely at ease in the quiet, clinical space. Like he was meant to be there. Like he’d been waiting.
“Hey, buddy,” I said carefully, stepping inside. “What’s your name?”
No answer. No shift in expression. He just kept watching the ceiling, completely immersed in whatever story was playing out in his head. I felt my pulse quicken. No explanation, no ID, no paperwork.
“Are you lost?” I asked again, this time more firmly. I couldn’t just leave—not with this mystery sitting in front of me.
At last, he turned his head to look at me, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’m not lost,” he said calmly. “I’m just waiting.”
I moved in a little closer. “Waiting for who?”
“For you to ask the right question,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
That’s when something shifted. There was something deeply strange about him—not frightened or confused, but strangely composed. Way too composed for someone so small.
I pulled out my phone and tried to look up his info—anything. But there was nothing. No record. No file. No sign he’d ever been admitted.
My gut told me to find help. I went straight to the charge nurse. “Hey, quick question—do we have a kid in Exam Room 3?”
She looked up, puzzled. “A kid? No, there shouldn’t be anyone in there. Are you sure?”
“Positive. He’s just lying on the bed. No parents, no chart—nothing.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s… odd. Let’s go check.”
Those next few moments felt surreal. I half-expected the room to be empty when we returned. But no—he was still there, same pose, same quiet presence.
Only now, the nurse had gone pale. Her expression changed instantly, and she reached for the phone without a word—calling security.