I was on duty at the hospital—when I walked into the room, there was a child no one seemed to know about.

It was the end of my shift, and I was exhausted. On a final round, I opened the door to Exam Room 3—and froze.

A little boy, maybe five or six, lay on the hospital bed, relaxed like he’d been there all day. No parent. No nurse. No chart. Just him, staring at the ceiling like it was telling him a story.

“Hey, buddy,” I said. “What’s your name?”

He didn’t answer at first. Then, calmly: “I’m just waiting.”

“For who?”

“For you to ask the right question.”

Something about him felt… off. Too calm. Too knowing. I checked with the charge nurse—she said no child had been admitted.

We went back together.

He was still there. Same pose. Same quiet.

But the nurse turned pale.

She picked up the phone and called security—without saying a word.