Silas woke up to the soft hum of the ceiling fan, its rhythmic spin slicing through the morning stillness. The sun had barely climbed past the horizon, yet its pale light pressed faintly against his eyelids.
It was his day off the one day he had promised himself rest, a break from the endless corridors of the hospital, from the smell of antiseptic and the constant calls of "Doctor, we need you."
But as he stared at the ceiling, a strange unease crept into him. It wasn't pain, nor fatigue, it was a subtle, persistent tug, like an invisible hand pulling at his chest. Something within him urged him to get up, to go to the hospital.
He rolled over, trying to ignore it. You need rest, Silas, he told himself. You've earned it. Yet, the more he tried to dismiss it, the more it gnawed at him, whispering insistently in his mind.
With a resigned sigh, he swung his legs off the bed.
