Several mothers independently reported that their children laughed at empty corners of rooms.

None of the children ever cried during the early morning hours.

And none of them slept between 3:30 and 4:00 a.m.

Room 412-C was eventually converted into a storage space. Then an office. Then left unused again after repeated complaints of “equipment malfunction.”

To this day, maintenance staff refuse to enter it alone.

They say the room feels occupied.

Not haunted.

Observed.

In the end, no one could prove what happened—only that something did. Something that medicine could not diagnose, law could not prosecute, and reason could not contain.

Some doors, once opened, do not slam shut.

They wait.

And in the quiet hours before dawn,

when hospitals breathe and machines hum like distant hearts, there are places where the lights flicker—not because of faulty wiring, but because something on the other side is still awake.

Watching.

Waiting.

And remembering the nurses who stayed through the night.