For ten years, Room 701 existed in suspended stillness, filled with the soft hum of machines and an air of expensive silence.

Leonard Whitmore, once a commanding force in global industry, lay motionless in the bed he could neither leave nor feel.

His wealth had built the hospital wing around him, but it had no power over the coma that had erased his presence from the world while keeping his body intact.

As time passed, visitors disappeared. Colleagues stopped coming, and even the most hopeful doctors surrendered

to routine maintenance rather than recovery. Paperwork was being prepared to move Leonard to a long-term care

facility, a quiet acknowledgment that his story, as far as medicine was concerned, had reached its end.

That same afternoon, Malik, an eleven-year-old boy who spent his days wandering hospital corridors while his

mother worked nights cleaning floors, drifted into the restricted wing. A storm had flooded the streets,

and mud clung to his shoes and hands. Room 701 had always caught his attention. Inside, the man didn’t look powerful to Malik—only alone.

Finding the door unlocked, Malik slipped inside and stood beside the bed. Remembering his grandmother,

who had lain silent before her death, Malik believed stillness did not mean absence. He spoke softly

to Leonard, telling him it must be lonely to be treated like furniture instead of a person.

On instinct, Malik pulled damp earth from his pocket and gently spread it across Leonard’s face.

He whispered that the earth remembers where people come from and hoped it might help Leonard remember too. Moments later, a nurse walked in and screamed.

As security rushed Malik away, Leonard’s heart monitor spiked. His finger moved. Days later, Leonard awoke,

saying the smell of rain-soaked soil pulled him back to life. When Malik returned, Leonard thanked him for reminding him he was still human—a truth medicine had forgotten.