When I was finally discharged, I felt stronger, though still fragile. As I gathered my belongings, I stopped by the front desk.

“I’d like to thank the nurse who checked on me every night,” I said. “The one assigned to my room.”

The staff exchanged puzzled looks. They pulled up schedules, reviewed assignments, and double-checked records. After a few minutes, one of them looked at me gently.

“There wasn’t a male nurse assigned to your room during your stay,” she said. “Only rotating female staff.”

They suggested that stress, medication, or exhaustion might have blurred my memory. That sometimes patients perceive things differently while recovering. I nodded and accepted the explanation, even though it left a strange unease in my chest.

Healing often brings moments we can’t fully explain. I decided not to dwell on it. I focused on getting better, on returning to my life.

Weeks later, while unpacking at home, I reached into my hospital bag and felt something folded inside one of the pockets. It was a small piece of paper, creased and worn.

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