The hospital didn't usually feel this quiet.
Even on a Saturday morning when the halls were less crowded, there was still always something—footsteps, the beep of a monitor, the shuffle of nurses exchanging reports. But this morning, everything felt suspended, like the silence was waiting for something… or someone.
Dr. Jane Thompson adjusted the stethoscope around her neck and blinked sleep from her eyes. She'd been on call most of the night, and while she wasn't new to the chaos, she definitely wasn't used to being summoned to the conference room before morning rounds.
The head consultant, Dr. Mensah, looked up from his tablet when she entered.
"Jane," he greeted, short and direct. "I need you on the VIP floor today. We've had a case moved in overnight."
Jane raised an eyebrow. "VIP?"
Dr. Mensah nodded. "Car accident. Young woman. Brought in unconscious, now stable. RTA with massive blood loss. She's already received one transfusion but may need another soon. Watch her vitals closely."
Jane flipped open her notebook, ready to scribble, but he waved her off.
"Her chart will be with the nurse. I'm assigning you to her personally. Keep it discreet—no photos, no talk. She's… well-known."
That caught Jane's attention. "As in?"
Dr. Mensah sighed, like it didn't matter. "You'll see."
And just like that, she was dismissed.
The VIP ward looked nothing like the rest of the hospital. Cleaner, quieter, too polished to feel like anyone had ever bled there.
Room 9.
Jane knocked once and entered, heart steady, until it wasn't.
The Caucasian lady in the bed was art.
Not in the way of models in magazines, but in the way dusk paints gold across the sky just before night swallows it whole. Her skin was a soft caramel, her curls tied in a loose, chaotic bun. Even pale from blood loss, her lips held color, and her lashes fanned out like they'd been sculpted to perfection.
She looked fragile, expensive, and… unreal.
Jane blinked, cleared her throat, and reminded herself she was a doctor.
But even Jane knew beauty when it demanded silence.
The lady lay motionless, her chest rising in a slow, mechanical rhythm under the thin hospital blanket. Unconscious, yet undeniably powerful in presence—like even in sleep, she owned the room.
Her curls framed her face like a halo undone, and her skin, though paler than it should be, still glowed beneath the soft light spilling from the wall lamp. Her lips were parted slightly, as if mid-thought, and Jane couldn't help but wonder what her voice sounded like.
She stood frozen—staring longer than she should have. A flutter stirred in her chest, soft and stupid. She blamed the lack of sleep. Or the coffee she skipped.
She had seen thousands of patients. But none had made her forget what she came to do.
The sound of the door clicking open made her flinch.
"Nurse Adwoa," Jane said too quickly, adjusting her coat like she'd been caught stealing.
The nurse offered her a look—half polite, half suspicious. "Vitals stable. She's still unconscious. We're monitoring hemoglobin levels. Transfusion may resume depending on the next read."
Jane nodded and reached for the chart hanging near the bed, suddenly very focused on the paperwork.
Name: Josephine Yeboah-Davis
Age: 25
Blood Group: B+
Diagnosis: RTA – Internal bleeding. Blood loss. Broken ribs. Concussion.
Allergies: None known.
Transferred from: Private hospital.
Special instructions: Keep anonymous.
Yeboah-Davis?
That name stirred something familiar, but she couldn't place it.
"Who brought her in?" Jane asked without looking up.
"Private ambulance. Paid in full. Her father made arrangements," Nurse Adwoa replied, voice low.
Jane blinked at the name again. Josephine.
Even unconscious, it suited her. Delicate but firm. Like the kind of name you'd accidentally whisper in your sleep.
She closed the file slowly, forcing her mind back to protocol.
"Let me know as soon as the lab sends the next results," she said, setting the file back and adjusting the IV line. "And if she wakes up, page me immediately."
The nurse nodded and left.
And Jane? She stayed behind a few seconds longer, looking at the sleeping woman like she was trying to solve a puzzle.
Not a poet.
Not a romantic.
But suddenly, Jane was hoping she'd be the first face Josephine saw when she opened her eyes.
Jane read the name one more time.
Josephine Yeboah-Davis.
Didn't ring a bell. The name could belong to a politician's daughter, a musician, or just some spoiled rich kid with a lot of money and too little luck. But Jane didn't care about all that.
What pulled her in was simpler—realer.
She slipped her phone out of her coat pocket. Hesitated.
Then took a single photo.
No filters. No angle. Just the woman in the bed—barefaced, peaceful, and breathtaking.
Jane stared at the image.
It didn't make sense. No one looked like this outside of dreams.
She slid the phone away quickly, as if embarrassed by her own moment of weakness. But still—she needed to know she hadn't imagined it.
Slowly, like reaching through a cloud, Jane walked to the bed. Her fingers hovered near Josephine's cheek. Just an inch. Maybe less.
And then… she touched her.
Warm. Real. Soft, even with the faint bruises marring her skin.
Jane let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.
"What are you?" she whispered. "A painting?"
A buzz from her phone startled her back to the present.
She grabbed it quickly and stepped away from the bed.
"Nurse Adwoa?" she answered.
"Dr. Thompson, sorry to bother. Just wanted to remind you the surgical ward's rounds are starting in fifteen. You asked to be paged."
Right. Her actual job.
"On my way," Jane said, voice clipped, her hand already brushing down her coat.
Every nurse in the hospital loved working with Dr. Jane Thompson. She was sharp, focused, and oddly kind. A mix of mystery and cool-headed grace.
Smart? Undeniably. Quiet? Mostly. Stylish? Always.
The whispers about her didn't bother her anymore—"I think she's into women" or "She dresses like a guy but somehow makes it work." Ghanaian culture had its expectations, especially for women, but Jane never subscribed to any of them.
She didn't wear dresses, didn't wear heels, didn't wear silence. What she did wear was confidence—tailored slacks, crisp button-ups, clean sneakers. Her hair was always tucked back neatly, her watch always matched her vibe, and her voice never raised unless absolutely necessary.
She didn't confirm anything about her sexuality—but she didn't deny it either. She just… existed. In her lane. Unapologetically.
And right now, that lane was walking her out of the VIP room.
But as she glanced back one last time at the woman sleeping in bed, Jane felt something shift—something small but irreversible.
She had no idea who Josephine Yeboah-Davis was.
But she had a feeling that soon… everyone would know.
Especially her.