Nurse Jenny's POV
Mrs. Thornfield is singing.
I freeze in the entry, my hand still on the handle, because in nine months of caring for this woman, I have never—not once—heard her sing.
She doesn't notice me. She's too focused on the baby in her arms, rocking gently, humming some soft tune I don't recognize. Her eyes are closed, and there's a small smile on her face. A real one. Not the fake, practiced smile she uses with doctors and guests.
The baby—little Lily—is peaceful in her mother's arms. Actually peaceful. Earlier today, every time we tried to hand Lily to Mrs. Thornfield, the baby screamed like we were hurting her. Now she's cooing softly, one tiny hand wrapped around her mother's finger.
Something is very, very wrong.
I clear my throat. "Mrs. Thornfield? I need to check your vitals."
She opens her eyes, and I actually take a step back.
Those are Celeste Thornfield's eyes. Same light blue color. Same perfect shape. But they're different somehow. Warmer. Less empty.
"Of course," she says, her voice soft. "Thank you for checking on us."
Thank you.
Celeste Thornfield has never thanked me for anything. Not in nine months of pregnancy care. Not through hours of difficult work. Not even when I held her hand while she screamed through contractions.
I walk over on shaky legs and wrap the blood pressure cuff around her arm. She doesn't complain that it's too tight. Doesn't tell me to hurry up because she has important calls to make. Just sits there, holding her baby, singing that same soft tune.
"Your blood pressure looks good," I say, checking the number. "Much better than earlier."
"That's a relief." She looks down at Lily with so much love it makes my chest hurt. "I was so scared I wouldn't get to hold her. That I'd miss everything."
I pull out my stethoscope, trying to focus on my job and not on how wrong this feels. "You flatlined for forty-three seconds. That's serious. But you're safe now. You're going to be fine."
"Am I?" She looks up at me, and there's something in her eyes that makes my skin tingle. Fear. Real, deep fear. "Jenny, can I ask you something?"
She knows my name. Celeste Thornfield has never tried to learn my name. She calls me "nurse" when she calls me anything at all.
"Sure," I say carefully.
"The flatlining. When that happened—" She stops, choosing her words carefully. "Did anything unusual occur? Anything that seemed... strange?"
My heart starts beating faster. "Strange how?"
"I don't know. Just—did you notice anything different about me? Before and after?"
I want to say no. I want to laugh it off and tell her she's just tired from the birth. But I can't. Because I did notice something.
"Your eyes," I hear myself say. "When you woke up after we revived you, your eyes looked different. More alive."
She sucks in a sharp breath. "So I'm not crazy."
"What do you mean?"
But before she can answer, another nurse—Carol—pokes her head in. "Jenny, we need you at the station. Mrs. Chen in room 304 is asking for pain medicine."
"I'll be right there," I say, not taking my eyes off Mrs. Thornfield.
Carol leaves. We're alone again, and the quiet feels heavy with things unsaid.
"I should let you rest," I say, packing up my tools.
"Jenny, wait." Mrs. Thornfield's voice is anxious. "I need to tell someone, and I think—I think maybe you might believe me."
"Believe what?"
She opens her mouth, and I can see her battling with something. Finally, she says, "I'm not who everyone thinks I am."
The words hang in the air between us.
"I don't understand," I say, even though part of me does. Part of me has been yelling since the moment she thanked me that something impossible has happened.
"I know how this sounds. I know you'll think I'm crazy or confused from blood loss or something. But I need you to listen." She takes a deep breath. "My name isn't Celeste. It's Eva. And I died tonight—but not here. I died somewhere else, and then I woke up here, in this body, with a baby I've never seen before and a life I don't recognize."
My medical knowledge tells me she's delusional. That pain and blood loss can cause hallucinations, confusion, false memories. I should call the doctor. I should report this instantly.
But I've been a nurse for fifteen years. I've seen a lot of strange things in that time. And I've learned to trust my gut.
And my gut is telling me that the woman in this bed is telling the truth.
"Eva," I repeat slowly.
She nods, tears filling her eyes. "Eva Hart. I was living in Barcelona. I was driving to the airport to fly home to see my dying mother when a truck hit my car. I remember dying. I remember thinking it was over." Her voice breaks. "But then I woke up here. In Celeste's body. With her baby. Her life. Her husband."
"Her husband," I say. Then I remember. "Mr. Thornfield. He's supposed to come tomorrow to take you home."
The blood drains from her face. "Dominic. God, I don't know how I'm going to—" She stops herself. "You don't believe me. Why would you? I sound mad."
But that's the thing. She doesn't sound crazy. She sounds scared and lost and desperate for someone to understand.
"Tell me something," I say quietly. "Something only you would know. Something Celeste wouldn't."
She thinks for a moment. "Celeste was cold to you. All of you. She whined constantly during her pregnancy. She refused to touch her belly, wouldn't talk to the baby. She acted like being pregnant was an inconvenience." She meets my eyes. "Am I right?"
I nod slowly. Everything she's saying is true.
"I'm not her," Eva adds. "I would never treat my baby—any baby—like that. I've had Lily in my arms for hours, and I already love her more than I thought possible. That's not Celeste. That's me."
She's right. The woman who spent nine months acting like pregnancy was a drag wouldn't spend hours rocking her baby and singing lullabies.
"What are you going to do?" I whisper.
"I don't know. Dominic—Mr. Thornfield—he's my ex-boyfriend. From before. From when I was Eva." She smiles bitterly. "I left him three years ago. Broke his heart. And now I'm his wife, except he doesn't know it's me. He thinks I'm Celeste."
This is impossible. This doesn't happen in real life. Bodies don't just swap souls like moving clothes.
But I'm looking at proof that maybe—just maybe—impossible things can happen.
"I need to check something," I say suddenly. "Stay here."
I hurry out of the room and down to the nurses' station. My hands shake as I pull up Mrs. Thornfield's medical information on the computer. I scroll back through nine months of prenatal visits.
Every visit, Celeste Thornfield was cold, dismissive, barely interested. She missed meetings. Showed up late. Complained about every test. The notes from other nurses all say the same thing: "Patient shows no emotional connection to pregnancy."
Then I pull up today's records. The emergency C-section. The complications. The moment when her heart stopped.
Time of death: 11:47 PM.
Time of revival: 11:48 PM.
Forty-three seconds.
But here's what makes my blood run cold: the doctor's notes say that when Mrs. Thornfield flatlined, her brain activity went totally dark. Flat. Nothing. And when she came back, there was a short surge of activity that the doctor marked as "unusual but likely due to oxygen deprivation."
What if it wasn't air deprivation?
What if that rise was something else? Someone else?
I'm about to close the file when I notice something else. An email, sent to the hospital staff this morning—hours before Celeste went into labor.
It's from a woman named Vanessa Carrington. The subject line reads: "Inquiry about Patient Celeste Thornfield."
I click it open. The email is brief:
"I'm calling to confirm the delivery plan for Mrs. Thornfield. As a close family friend, I want to ensure everything is set. Please check the attending physician and nursing staff."
Why would a family friend need to know the nurse staff?
My senses scream danger.
I close the file and hurry back to the room, my heart racing. But when I open the door, I freeze.
Mrs. Thornfield—Eva—is standing by the window, holding Lily. She's looking down at something in her hand. The baby monitor we gave her to track Lily's breathing.
But the screen shows more than just Lily's crib.
It shows another feed. Another camera.
Pointed straight at Mrs. Thornfield's bed.
"Jenny," Eva whispers, her face white as a sheet. "Someone's been watching me. Someone put a camera in this room."
I rush over and look at the computer. She's right. There's a second feed, hidden in the settings menu. A live stream of her hospital room.
"How long has this been here?" Eva asks, her voice shaking.
I check the dates. "Since this morning. Hours before you went into labor."
We stare at each other, the weight of what this means sinking in.
Someone knew Celeste was going to give birth today. Someone wanted to watch it happen. Someone planted a hidden camera to watch her every move.
And if Eva is telling the truth—if she really died and came back in Celeste's body—then that means Celeste died too.
"This wasn't an accident," I breathe. "Your complications. Your heart stopping. Someone planned this."
Eva's arms tighten around Lily. "Someone tried to kill Celeste."
"Or succeeded," I whisper. "And now they think you survived."
The baby monitor in Eva's hand suddenly flickers. The hidden camera feed changes angles.
Someone just accessed it remotely.
Someone is watching us right now.
Eva and I lock eyes, both of us understanding the same terrible truth at the same moment: Whoever killed Celeste doesn't know Eva took her place.
And when they figure it out, they'll try again.