The Nurse of Block 13

The wind moaned through the alleyways of Yau Ma Tei like a forgotten voice. Neon lights flickered in vain attempts to penetrate the thick mist that had settled over the city after dusk. Hong Kong, usually pulsing with the rhythm of people and lights, was frozen under the strict curfew declared just hours earlier.

Jian and Mei-ling sat quietly inside their 10th-floor apartment, the television murmuring news updates in the background. Mei-ling, her round belly rising and falling with each breath, winced.

"It’s time," she whispered.                                   

Jian stood up so fast he knocked over his tea.

"But there’s curfew... No taxis, no MTR... Mei-ling, what do we do?"

Another contraction surged. Mei-ling clutched the sofa, face contorting. The baby was coming.

At 2:03 a.m., defying the empty streets and the city’s silence, Jian bundled his wife into their old silver van. The air outside was heavy—oppressive. He drove through the vacant roads with hazard lights flashing, praying they wouldn't be stopped.

Their destination: Wing Wah Memorial Hospital in Kowloon Bay.

They reached the hospital gates, surprised to find them open. No security, no staff—but the entrance lights were on.

Inside, the white hallways echoed with their footsteps. Mei-ling’s breaths came fast, shallow.

"Is anyone here?" Jian called out. "Please! My wife... she's delivering!"

A soft voice floated through the silence.

"Room 203. This way."

A nurse appeared around the corner, serene in her crisp white uniform. Her name tag read Nurse Lin Chenhua. Her hair was tied in a neat bun, and her presence was oddly calming.

"You're safe now," she said. "Come."

Lin guided Mei-ling into the delivery room. She moved with grace and confidence, her hands warm and steady. Jian, frantic and overwhelmed, was ushered aside.

Within the sterile quiet of the room, pain gave way to life. At 3:27 a.m., a cry pierced the gloom.

A baby girl.

Mei-ling wept softly. Nurse Lin placed the infant in her arms and smiled, a light that seemed to radiate from inside her.

"She’s beautiful," Lin whispered. "Strong heart. Just like her mother."

Jian took photos. He asked the nurse where he could file papers. She told him, "Staff will return in the morning. For now, rest."

She brought them warm water, extra blankets, even food that seemed impossibly fresh.

As dawn approached, Nurse Lin stood by the window and looked out. Then she turned to them with a tired, almost melancholic smile.

"You’ll be alright now. My work here is done."

She walked out quietly.

At 7:15 a.m., the hospital came alive. Lights fully brightened. The security guard yawned at his desk. Dr. Wong, the head physician, arrived along with a few nurses.

Mei-ling was nursing her child. Jian stood up.

"Doctor! Thank you. But please—can you thank Nurse Lin for us? She was incredible. We want to nominate her for a service award."

Dr. Wong paused. "Nurse Lin? There’s no one on shift by that name."

Another nurse, Ivy Liu, looked up. "Did she say her full name?"

"Lin Chenhua," Jian said. "She helped us last night. Room 203. She delivered our daughter."

Ivy froze. Her clipboard slipped from her fingers.

Dr. Wong looked solemn. "That’s not possible. Lin Chenhua was our most devoted nurse. She died a year ago."

"What?"

"There was a fire. Electrical short in the maternity wing. She refused to leave until every patient was safe. She got them all out. But... the roof collapsed."

Jian turned pale. "No. It’s not... We saw her. She helped us."

Ivy walked over, trembling. "Last week... a mother who came in alone during another night emergency described the same thing. Nurse in white, name tag Chenhua. No one believed her."

Jian and Mei-ling exchanged glances, their baby sleeping soundly between them.

They all walked to Room 203.

Inside: spotless. No sign of use. No files. No food trays. The bed untouched.

Only one thing stood on the window ledge: an old photograph in a frame. A young nurse in white, smiling.

"That’s Lin," said Ivy. "We keep it here in her memory. This was her favorite room."

Mei-ling wept. Not out of fear, but grace.

They named their daughter Chenhua Mei.

Years later, her favorite toy would be a nurse’s kit.

When asked what she wanted to be, she’d say:

"Someone who stays behind when everyone else runs. Someone who helps even if she’s not seen."

And somewhere beyond the veil of the living, Nurse Lin smiled again.

Moral: In the darkest hours, it is not power, fame, or authority that saves lives—but kindness. Even beyond death, the soul that lives to serve can become light for the lost. Conscience, once awakened, walks farther than the body ever could.