I left the hospital with more than discharge papers and a list of medications; I left with a quiet mystery stitched into my memory. The staff’s certainty that no male nurse had ever been assigned to my room collided with my own clear recollection of his voice, his patience, his simple phrases that steadied me when the nights felt endless. Logic insisted on one version of events; my heart insisted on another.
In the weeks that followed, life resumed its ordinary rhythm, yet that unanswered question lingered in the background. Finding the anonymous note in my bag didn’t solve the puzzle—it deepened it, while somehow offering peace. Whether he was a stranger whose name I never caught, a compassionate soul working unseen, or a figure shaped by my own desperate need, the comfort was real. Sometimes, what saves us isn’t certainty, but the courage to accept grace without fully understanding its source.
