Chapter 21
Collins
I couldn’t believe that woman. She had gone too far.
I turned back toward Anna, still lying so impossibly still, and that’s when I saw a single tear slipping from the corner of her eye, trailing slowly down her cheek.
Panic surged through me, sharp and immediate. She was responding.
Did she hear us?
The thought hit me all at once, sending conflicting emotions crashing together. Hope bloomed—bright, uncontrollable. Was this a sign she was close to waking up? That her mind was fighting its way back?
And then dread followed just as fast.
What if she’d heard everything?
Every cruel word.
Every lie spoken by someone she once trusted.
Without thinking, I reached out and gently wiped the tear away with my thumb. My voice came out low, urgent—meant for her, but grounding me just as much.
“Don’t worry,” I murmured. “I don’t believe a single thing she said about you.”
The room felt suddenly too small, too quiet.
I moved quickly then, instinct taking over as I reached for my equipment. Monitors. Scans. I needed data. Proof. Something solid to anchor the storm of thoughts in my head. My hands were steady, but my heart wasn’t.
I ran the tests. Ordered the brain scans. Watched every flicker, every response, searching for signs—any sign—that she was closer than before.
I needed to know if she was waking up.
I needed to know if those eyes would open.
Because beneath the doctor, beneath the professionalism and restraint, there was one truth I couldn’t ignore anymore.
That’s what I really wanted.
To see her. To finally meet her. Properly—this time.
I jolted awake, my body stiff, my heart racing for a split second before I realised where I was. The chair beside Anna’s bed. I must have fallen asleep.
My gaze immediately went to her.
She was still, exactly as she had been hours before. Peaceful. Unchanged. No flutter of lashes. No movement. Just the steady rhythm of the monitors keeping time beside her.
I checked my watch.
5:00 a.m.
Damn.
I scrubbed a hand down my face and stood, stretching out the stiffness in my back.
Reluctantly, I left her room to freshen up, grabbed a quick breakfast I barely tasted, and started my morning rounds with the rest of my patients.
I went through the motions, checked charts, reviewed vitals, gave instructions—but my mind kept drifting back to her.
Halfway through rounds, the overhead speaker crackled to life.
“Dr Collins, Finance Office is requesting your presence.”
My stomach tightened slightly. I was certain Anna’s accounts were in order. I’d made sure of that. Still, I headed there.
When I walked in, the first thing I noticed wasn’t the admin desk—it was Mrs. Henderson standing near the window, her young daughter seated quietly beside her, swinging her legs.
“Dr. Collins,” the admin lady said, looking up from her computer. “Thank you for coming. We’ve received Miss. Mathews’ divorce papers from her husband. The documents confirm that he bears no further responsibility toward his ex-wife.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
Ex-wife.
“We’re also lifting the temporary guardianship,” she continued, glancing at her screen. “Which has been assigned to you. We'd normally pass it on to her father.
I stiffened. “Her father won’t be able to cover her medical expenses.”
“Oh, that’s already been settled,” she said smoothly, gesturing toward Mrs. Henderson. “Mrs. Henderson has made a significant donation to the hospital. She has also fully covered all of Anna’s treatments—past, current, and any future care that may be required.”
I turned slowly toward her, caught completely off guard.
I opened my mouth to protest. To insist. I wanted to keep the responsibility. Wanted to stay officially involved.
But the moment I felt the words rise; I stopped myself.
It would raise questions.
Questions I couldn’t afford.
So instead, I nodded. Accepted it.
When I faced Mrs. Henderson, I meant every word I said. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Henderson.”
She smiled gently. “It’s truly my pleasure. How is Anna doing?”
“She’s still in the same state,” I replied honestly. “But… we’re hopeful. There are signs that something may shift in the coming weeks.”
Her eyes softened. “May I see her?”
“Of course,” I said. “Please—follow me.”
And as I led her down the corridor toward Anna’s room, one thought stayed with me, heavier than the rest:
Even without the paperwork…
Even without the responsibility…
I wasn’t going anywhere.
When we reached Anna’s room, the little one’s eyes widened as she took everything in. The soft lighting. The quiet hum of machines. The calm that seemed to wrap around the space.
“Wow,” she whispered, tugging lightly at her mother’s hand. “This room is nice.”
Then her gaze landed on the bed.
On Anna.
She stepped closer, small and hesitant, as if unsure whether she was allowed to be there. Her lower lip trembled as she looked at Anna’s still face.
“Miss. Mathews,” she said softly, her voice breaking, “when are you going to wake up?”
The words hit me straight in the chest.
Something tightened, sharp and painful. Because we were all waiting for that. Every single one of us—whether we admitted it or not.
The little girl's eyes wandered to the bedside table, then to the crystal jar sparkling in the morning sun. She leaned forward, fascinated.
“Wow, Mom,” she said, pointing. “Look at these beads. Can I count them?”
Her mother gently pulled her hand back. “No, Lara,” she said quietly. “What if one falls and gets lost? Let’s leave them where they are.”
The girl nodded without arguing, her curiosity fading as quickly as it had come. She cast one last look at Anna before moving back to her mother’s side.
They stayed a little while longer, standing quietly, respectfully, before thanking me and heading out.
As the door closed behind them, the room felt even quieter than before.
And all I could think was how many hearts were waiting for Anna to open her eyes.
I went to the call room and shut the door behind me.
The silence there was different—thicker, more controlled. I dropped into the chair, opened my laptop, and pulled up Anna’s full medical file. Imaging, Lab results, Neurology notes. Every scan, every observation, every marginal change that had been logged since the night she’d been admitted.
I cross-referenced her EEG patterns with the latest literature on coma recovery. Reviewed case studies—patients who had shown emotional responses before neurological ones. Tear reflexes. Micro-expressions. Autonomic responses triggered by familiar voices or emotional stress.
I searched relentlessly.
New stimulation protocols.
Auditory cue therapy.
Sensory cycling schedules.
Experimental—but ethical—approaches being trialled in Europe and the US.
I pulled up recent journals, highlighting anything that showed even a fractional improvement in arousal response.
Studies on structured voice exposure. Family-specific sound patterns.
Circadian rhythm enforcement. Even the timing of touch—how consistent, predictable contact could help reorient neural pathways.
I compared her test results again, zooming in on details most people would dismiss as static noise. A slight variance here. A delayed response there. Nothing definitive—but not nothing either.
Hope lived in the margins.
I drafted a revised care plan, adjusting stimulation windows, recommending updated neurological consults, and scheduling repeat scans sooner than originally planned. Nothing reckless. Nothing that couldn’t be justified.
Just… thorough. Excessively so.
By the time I closed my laptop, hours had passed. My eyes burned, my coffee sat untouched, and my chest felt tight from the weight of wanting something medicine couldn’t promise.
I wasn’t just waiting for her to wake up anymore.
I was actively fighting for it.
And I would keep fighting until there was nothing left to try.