The hospital was quieter now, the hum of machines and the soft shuffle of nurses' shoes the only sounds. Cooper lay on the
bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing. The voices—no, the thoughts—he had heard were still vivid in his head. It was
like a door had opened in his mind, and he couldn't close it.
He sat up, wincing slightly as his sore ribs protested. On the bedside table, the flowers Megan had brought were still fresh,
their bright colors a small comfort. He reached for them, his fingers brushing the petals, and a thought crossed his mind:
*Megan cared enough to come.*
The thought brought a faint smile to his face, but it was quickly replaced by curiosity. He needed to understand what was
happening to him.
The nurse entered, carrying a clipboard. Her thoughts came before her words. *"He's recovering faster than expected. That's
a good sign."*
"How are you feeling, Mr. Cooper?" she asked, her voice professional but kind.
"Better," he replied, his gaze fixed on her. He concentrated, trying to hear more, and her thoughts flowed into his mind
like a whisper.
*"Good. One less patient to worry about. Still, I should remind him to rest."*
"Should I be resting more?" Cooper asked suddenly, his tone casual.
The nurse blinked, startled. "Uh, yes, actually. You've been through a lot. Take it slow."
He nodded, hiding a small grin. This wasn't just a one-time thing—he could really hear people's thoughts.
Later that evening, Paul stopped by, a bag of takeout in hand. "Brought you something better than hospital food," he said,
grinning as he set the bag down. "I figured you'd be sick of Jell-O by now."
Cooper laughed, the sound feeling strange after the past couple of days. "Thanks, Paul. You didn't have to."
"Of course I did. You scared the hell out of everyone, you know." Paul's voice was light, but his thoughts were louder.
*"Man, I thought I'd lost my best friend. I'm glad he's okay."*
Cooper's smile faltered for a moment. He hadn't realized how much Paul cared. "I'm fine," he said softly. "Just a little
banged up."
As they ate, Paul filled the silence with stories from the office, but Cooper's mind was elsewhere. He could hear fragments
of Paul's thoughts between words, a mix of genuine concern and annoyance about work.
That night, as Cooper lay in the dimly lit room, he decided to test his ability further. He focused on the faint sounds
outside—voices of nurses in the hallway, a doctor dictating notes. Their thoughts filtered through, disjointed but clear.
*"Hope this shift ends soon."*
*"Did I remember to call her back?"*
*"Another chart to update. Great."*
The sheer volume of thoughts was overwhelming. Cooper pressed his palms against his temples, trying to block them out,
but it was no use. The gift was there, constant and unrelenting.
Before he could drift into sleep, a thought—not his own—pierced through the noise, sharp and chilling: *"He doesn't know
what's coming."*
Cooper sat up abruptly, his heart pounding. The room was empty, but the voice echoed in his mind.
Who—or what—had said that? And what did it mean?