Chapter 2 - The Echo of Voices
For the next four weeks, 8:15 PM became the centerpiece of Mark Vance’s existence.
Every night, like clockwork, his phone would ring. Every night, Mark would answer, and the soft, innocent voice of seven-year-old Toby would fill the lonely silence of his home.
They talked about everything. Toby told Mark about his elementary school, how he hated broccoli, how he wanted to build a rocket ship out of cardboard boxes, and how much he missed having a real dad around. Through their conversations, Mark pieced together the fragments of Toby’s life. Toby’s father had passed away in a tragic construction accident when Toby was just a toddler. He had no memory of him—only pictures on the mantle.
His mother, Sarah, was a dedicated pediatric nurse who worked relentless 12-hour night shifts at St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital to keep a roof over their heads. Because of her grueling schedule, Toby was often left under the watchful, albeit hard-of-hearing, care of their elderly neighbor, Mrs. Higgins.
Mark tried multiple times to correct the mistake, to tell Toby the truth—that he wasn't his father, just a grieving stranger on the other end of the line. But every time he opened his mouth to say the words, the memory of Leo’s fading smile stopped him. Toby needed a voice in the dark. And God knew, Mark needed Toby just as much. Talking to Toby made Mark eat again. It made him wash the dishes. It made him clean Leo’s room, not to erase his son, but to honor him.
However, the mystery burned in Mark’s mind daily.
Why my number?
Toby had explicitly mentioned that his mother had written Mark's number on a yellow sticky note attached to the refrigerator, telling the boy to call it whenever he felt alone or afraid. But Mark had checked his contacts, his past emails, and his call logs—he had never met a woman named Sarah.
Determined to unravel the truth without shattering Toby’s fragile world, Mark decided to act.
On a chilly Thursday evening, Mark drove across town to St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital—the very hospital where Leo had spent his final days, and where Toby’s mother reportedly worked as a nurse.
Walking through the sliding glass doors of the pediatric wing brought a tidal wave of painful memories. The smell of antiseptic, the muted beeps of heart monitors, the soft pastel murals painted on the corridor walls—it was a world Mark had prayed he would never have to step into again.
He walked up to the central nursing station. A young, tired-looking nurse looked up from her computer monitor with a polite smile.
"Can I help you, sir?" she asked.
"Hi," Mark said, his palms sweating. "I'm looking for a nurse named Sarah. She works the night shift in pediatrics. Her son's name is Toby."
The nurse’s eyes softened with immediate recognition. "Oh, you mean Nurse Sarah Miller! She's actually on duty right now in the West Wing, taking a quick break in the staff lounge."
"Could you... point me toward her?" Mark asked softly. "I just need to speak with her for a moment."
The nurse hesitated, but seeing the earnest, quiet intensity in Mark's eyes, she pointed down the hallway. "Third door on the left. Green door."
Mark walked slowly down the corridor, his heart pounding in his chest. He reached the green door, which was slightly ajar. He peeked through the narrow glass window.
Sitting at a small laminate table was a woman in dark blue scrubs. She looked to be in her early thirties, her hair pulled back in a loose pony-tail. Her eyes were rimmed with exhaustion, but her posture carried a quiet, fierce grace. She was holding a steaming mug of tea, staring tiredly at a small framed photograph of a glowing, brown-haired boy—Toby.
Mark knocked softly on the open door frame.
Sarah jumped slightly, turning her head. "Oh! Can I help you?"
Mark took a deep breath, stepping into the room. "Sarah? My name is Mark Vance."
The moment the name left his lips, Sarah’s hand froze. The mug in her grip trembled slightly. The color drained from her face, not with fear, but with a profound, overwhelming shock.
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"Mark..." she breathed, standing up so quickly her chair scraped loudly against the linoleum. "You... you're Mark."
"I am," Mark said, his voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through his veins. "I think you and I need to talk. Your son Toby has been calling my phone every night for a month. And I think you know exactly who I am."
