The night air around the hospital had thinned, weighed down by the silence that usually wrapped medical buildings in solemn stillness. Inside, the ward lights had dimmed slightly to signal the approaching midnight hour.
Mrs. Adeyemi had just concluded a conversation with the doctor. After sharing the emotional toll of having both daughters in the hospital, she had requested that they be moved into the same private ward.
The doctor nodded understandingly. "A shared space may help ease both of them, emotionally and logistically. We'll set it up now."
"Thank you, Doctor. God bless you," she said, exhaling slowly for the first time that evening.
As the nurses began coordinating the room transfer, Mrs. Adeyemi made her way down the corridor toward Peace's room where Grandma had stayed to watch over her.
Opening the door gently, she found the older woman seated at the bedside, her hand gently resting on Peace's arm as the child slept.
"Ma…" she whispered.
Grandma looked up and smiled faintly. "How's Patience?"
"She's resting. They're preparing to move both girls into a private double ward."
"Good," Grandma nodded. "That will make things easier for you."
Mrs. Adeyemi stepped further into the room, her expression clouding. "Ma, I didn't bring anything packed for Peace. There was so much panic… I just—"
"I know, my dear," Grandma said, cutting in softly. "Don't beat yourself up."
There was a long pause before Mrs. Adeyemi spoke again, her voice tinged with guilt. "Ma… what if Patience actually heard us talking? What if that's why she fainted?"
Grandma sighed deeply, brushing a hand across her forehead. "You're not sure she heard anything yet."
"But it makes sense," she said, tears rising in her throat again. "She welcomed us when we got home. Then just moments later, she collapsed. And Ade… Ade just kept pushing that she must donate blood, even in that fragile state, just because she's adopted."
She looked at Grandma with pain in her eyes. "How do you talk about someone you raised for twenty years like she's just an option, a backup plan?"
Grandma chuckled—a short, sharp laugh that made her daughter-in-law blink.
"Don't mind your husband," she said, shaking her head. "He knows nothing."
A small smile tugged at Mrs. Adeyemi's lips despite her heavy heart. "Mama…"
"No, it's true," Grandma said with a grin. "That man is strong-willed and stubborn, but he still hasn't learned that God writes stories we can't edit. Patience didn't come into this family by accident. And she won't be pushed around like some spare part in our lives."
Tears welled up in Mrs. Adeyemi's eyes again, but this time they were different—grateful, maybe even hopeful.
As they talked, a nurse peeked into the room. "Ma, we're ready. We've moved your older daughter's bed. We're wheeling Peace over now."
"Thank you," she nodded, rising to assist as Grandma stood to help fold Peace's blanket.
Two nurses gently lifted Peace onto the mobile stretcher, adjusting her IV and covering her with care. The transfer began smoothly down the hallway toward the new room.
But by the time they reached the private ward and opened the door—
Patience was nowhere to be found.
Her bed was empty.
No monitor connected.
No sheets ruffled.
No trace.
The nurse blinked in confusion. "Wait… wasn't she just here?"
Another nurse rushed in. "She was here less than ten minutes ago when we checked vitals."
Mrs. Adeyemi's heart dropped into her stomach. "What do you mean she's not here?"
The room was silent for a beat too long.
Then the flurry began—nurses checking the hallway, one running to the nurse station, the doctor being called back in, the bed being re-examined like maybe she had just… disappeared.
But she wasn't in the room.
She wasn't in the hallway.
She wasn't in the ward.
Patience Adeyemi had vanished.
Mrs. Adeyemi's breath caught in her chest.
"Jesus… where is my daughter?"