Round Midnight

Chapter One

Curious about the sci-fi twist?
An excerpt from Chapter 5 is included at the end of your preview, where reality fractures and the truth begins to surface.

Does light come quickly after the end of darkness?

My head throbbed, pain radiating from temples to crown, then spreading to the base of my skull. My entire body ached, from shoulders to hips. I had walked through pitch-black darkness for what felt like eternity. No light pierced the void. Time meant nothing, I forgot where I was, even forgot to be afraid. I only knew I had to keep moving. A faint voice whispered that I was almost there, so I pressed on.

A flash of blinding light forced my eyes shut. Then darkness claimed me again.

When I opened my eyes, the hospital ceiling swam into focus. But something felt different - not just my body, but my mind.

The pain had faded to bone-deep fatigue. I tried lifting my arms, they barely responded. My legs beneath the blanket shifted slightly. Though my limbs felt like lead weights, at least they were still there. My body ached from lying motionless for too long, buried in that endless darkness.

I couldn't remember why I was here. My hands were too weak to press the nurse call button. The wall clock read 12:00, but the numbers blurred together. Harsh daylight stabbed my eyes, so I let them close again, my mind drifting beyond my useless body.

The nurses' footsteps echoed with strange clarity, and beneath their spoken words, I could hear whispers of other thoughts, like radio signals bleeding through static. I dismissed it as medication-induced confusion, but deep down, I knew something had fundamentally changed during my time in the darkness.

Days blurred in the hospital’s sterile haze, my body weak but my mind sharp with voices no one spoke.

As I lay in the hospital bed, a familiar voice broke through the haze. “Jenny?” Dorian Chase stood at the door, his handsome face worn but smiling, those dimples I’d missed. My throat rasped, barely forming his name. He rushed to me, gripping my hand, his warmth pulling me from the void. “You’re awake,” he whispered, kissing my cheek. I nodded, tears blurring my vision.

A faint voice echoed in my mind: I love her so much. I froze, staring at Dorian. He hadn’t spoken, just held me, unaware of the thoughts I shouldn’t hear. Four years in a coma, caused by a car accident, they said, had changed me. I was Jenny, a social worker from San Francisco, ordinary beside a movie star like him. Yet something extraordinary stirred within me, whispering secrets no one else could know.

Over days, therapy and his presence coaxed my body back, though my mind raced with secrets.

My recovery was promising, perhaps because I had exercised regularly, or because of the excellent care. After few weeks, I could walk with a cane, though I still tired easily.

Once I could move and speak a little, I longed to go home. I missed jazz, Chet Baker, Billie Holiday, Rosemary Clooney, Julie London, Nat King Cole. I missed lying in my lounge chair, listening to music.

The doctor approved my discharge as long as I returned for regular therapy and checkups.

Alone in the world, parents and grandmother gone, I craved my townhouse’s familiar waves, a refuge from the voices crowding my mind.

A nurse passed, and something whispered at the edge of my mind: Poor thing, such a miracle. I flinched, blaming it on the medication.

Dorian’s call broke the silence, his voice a lifeline. “Jenny, you sure about leaving the hospital?” he asked, concern lacing his words.

“I’ll come back for regular physical therapy. There’s nothing to worry about,” I reassured him.

He went quiet on the other end.

In my mind, I saw him in a burnt-orange linen shirt, slightly wrinkled in that artistically intentional way, paired with tailored black drawstring trousers. His head was lowered, brow furrowed, lost in thought, as always.

“Then stay at my place with my parents.”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to be a burden. “I can take care of myself.”

“Dorian, I just want to reset myself,” I said softly.

He let out a helpless laugh. “Alright then. I’ll have Dylan pick you up from the hospital. Promise me you’ll let him drive you, I’ll only feel at ease if you do.”

I agreed.

“I’ll be back in a week. How about we go to Hawaii afterward?” he said.

He shuffled some papers on his nightstand, then added, “Or is there somewhere else you’d rather go?”

“Hawaii sounds nice. You can soak up some sun. I’ll ask the doctor tomorrow,” I replied.

“Just so you know, I’ve cleared everything. Don’t complain if I end up glued to your side the whole time.”

“I’d love that,” I said.

We chatted some more silly, aimless things before ending the call. Right before we hung up, I asked, ‘Are you wearing an orange linen shirt and black drawstring trousers right now?”

He paused. “Yeah… how did you know?”

My heart skipped a beat. “Just wondering if your fashion sense has changed.”

I hung up, but my mind was unsettled. I could see his image so clearly that it felt real. Lately, faint voices had been whispering in my mind. When I looked back, they didn’t feel like my own thoughts, more like echoes from others around me.

The voices were unsettling. I kept trying to shut them out. Maybe it was a strange ability I gained during my coma. But I didn’t want to be connected to that darkness. It was filled with nothing but fear and helplessness.

Next day around 11 a.m., Dylan Chase arrived. I had already packed my things and paid the final bill downstairs.

“Jenny!” Dylan rushed up and hugged me.

“Easy,” I patted his back. “Trying to knock me out again?” He laughed and released me.

“Dorian only told me last night that I’d be picking you up this morning. I had no idea you were already okay,” he said, adjusting his sleeves. “Mom’s going to be thrilled.”

“Thank you.” I hugged Dylan this time, of my own accord. I saw him as a younger brother, perhaps even closer than that.

He picked up my travel bag and said, “Dorian told me to settle your bill, but the hospital said you already handled it.”

“Yep, I took care of it,” I said lightly.

We entered the elevator.

“I’ll take you home first. If there’s anything you need to get, I’ll run out for it,” he offered.

“Thanks,” I said, giving him a firm pat on the back.

We got into his car. As we drove, he caught me up on the latest about mutual friends and acquaintances, skillfully merging onto Highway 101.

I’d always lived on the outskirts of San Francisco. Eventually, I bought a 1,000-square-foot townhouse in Outer Sunset. It was just a few blocks from Ocean Beach, sometimes, I could smell the sea breeze from my window. The constant rhythm of waves reminded me of home, of family, something I hadn't had since my parents died in a car accident when I was little. My grandmother raised me after that, but she passed away shortly after I graduated high school. Perhaps that's why I chose this place, the endless ocean helped fill the void of being alone in this world.

It took about thirty minutes to drive from the city center to Outer Sunset. The traffic lights downtown could really test your patience.

Dorian had returned my ID card and house key. These things that made me feel alive again.

Dylan smoothly pulled into the quiet neighborhood. Everything looked just like it did when I moved in, the same tidy sidewalks, the rows of pastel-painted townhouses, and the salty breeze rolling in from Ocean Beach.

Dylan helped carry my luggage. I unlocked the front door of the townhouse and checked the mailbox, no pile of letters, just a few flyers for furniture sales and new store openings. I tossed them in the trash bin by the door and led Dylan inside.

“Does it feel unfamiliar?” he asked.

I half-nodded, half-shook my head. “Maybe…a little,” I said with a smile.

We stepped into the living room. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

Everything was just as I remembered.

I flicked on the entry and living room lights, then walked to the window and drew open the curtains. Beyond the shared courtyard, I could just make out the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore.

With Dylan’s help, I restocked my daily essentials and groceries.

After Dylan left, the home belonged to me alone again.

I turned on the vinyl player in the living room and placed Chet Baker’s “My Funny Valentine” on the turntable.

His voice, soft, lazy, and warm filled the room.  The music wrapped around me like a memory of someone I’d lost, not just Dorian, but the part of myself that once laughed easily, that craved the warmth of others. In the silence of my empty home, I wondered if I’d ever feel that closeness again, the kind that makes you forget the world’s weight, even for a moment. Chet’s voice sang of love, but it was the ache for connection that kept me listening.

I was simply too exhausted.

Four years without activity had aged my body. I estimated it would take six months to rebuild strength.

I half-lay on the sofa, listening to the faint sound of waves in the distance and the music in my ears. Slowly, my mind drifted, pulled back to that endless darkness, as if it called me.

I was back in a dark space. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, not even when I held it close. I thought to myself: this darkness again. Suddenly, I heard hurried footsteps behind me. Before I could turn around, a phone rang. I jumped. The footsteps vanished. The darkness faded. A flash of light broke in.

I opened my eyes, staring blankly at the floor. Silence filled the air. Where had the footsteps and ringing come from? A dream? But the phone kept ringing.

I sat there, dazed, until I realized it was real.

I picked up the phone and glanced at the clock on the wall. Of course, it was Dorian Chase. He always timed his calls to my schedule.

“Jenny? Are you alright?”

“I’m good. It feels so nice to be home.”

We chatted more.

I paused. “Dorian, thank you.”

He chuckled. “Why the sudden thanks?”

“Thanks for taking care of everything.”

He fell silent.

Then he said, “How could you just leave me like that? But I knew you wouldn’t.”

Now it was my turn to be silent. I felt deeply moved. Against all odds, he had stayed.

“You know how stubborn I am,” I said, holding back tears.

We used to bicker playfully. He often gave in, knowing I was half-joking. I was always reasonable.

“Yeah, stubborn as a mule,” he laughed.

I laughed too.

“Can you bring some macarons from Paris? I want to compare their handmade ones with mine.”

As I organized my things, I remembered my quest for the perfect macaron recipe. I had time to try again before he came back.

“Of course! Anything else? I can be back by next Monday,” he said excitedly.

“Just you. Nothing else,” I replied.

Round Midnight

Chapter Two

I woke up around ten the next day. A quick haircut and new clothes made me feel human again, but strangers’ thoughts, sharp and unfiltered, kept intruding.

My body, still frail from years unmoving, ached with every step, urging rest I couldn’t afford. Even without strenuous activity, I felt tired. I closed my eyes and ignored the cityscape outside the car window, but my thoughts wouldn’t calm down.

"Bet she maxed out her card today," a voice rang in my head, the driver's.

"Sorry, what did you say?" I opened my eyes.

He looked startled. "I didn’t say anything."

Confused, I stared at him. I was sure I heard someone speak. I tried to figure out if he was lying.

"Whew, thought I said that out loud by accident," came another thought from the driver.

I stared at him. His lips never moved, and he kept his eyes on the road.

The voice in my head was crystal clear, as if someone had tuned a radio to the perfect frequency. It wasn't just random snippets anymore, I could hear complete thoughts, emotions, even see flashes of images. This was different from the hospital, more controlled somehow. But why was this happening to me?

I said, "I just got back from out of town. The airline lost my luggage, so I had to buy everything again."

He looked surprised. "That’s awful! Did they compensate you?"

"Luckily, I had insurance. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to afford all this," I fibbed.

"Insurance helps a lot. I thought you were just a shopaholic. The Chronicle said a third of people in this city shop to cope with stress. The protests have made everything chaotic."

I smiled. "And when the credit card bill comes, that’s another kind of stress."

He laughed. A siren wailed in the distance, like echoing his thoughts.

When we arrived back in Outer Sunset, I asked the driver to stop right in front of my townhouse so I wouldn’t have to carry bags too far. I tipped him well, grateful for the quiet ride home.  I heard his thought as he smiled and drove off: "This lady’s really generous!"

Carrying my bags, I walked up the front steps. As I fumbled with my keys, a passerby paused, watching curiously but saying nothing. I unlocked the door and stepped inside, nodding politely.

I set the bags down and stood still, hand on the doorknob.

Quiet.

But not inside my head.

"That’s her... the woman who was in a coma for years, the movie star’s girlfriend. Tough one. She actually woke up..."

The voice wasn’t spoken aloud. His face was blank. Lips sealed.

It was happening again. I could hear people’s thoughts. Since leaving the hospital, the whispers hadn’t stopped.

"Poor thing."

"So lucky."

"What a miracle."

I thought I’d left those voices behind. Instead, they were growing louder.

I collapsed onto the sofa, letting my bags scatter across the floor. A faint whisper lingered, not mine, urging caution I couldn’t place. Walking through the mall earlier, the thoughts of strangers had crashed over me like waves, hopes, fears, secrets, lies. Each mind had its own unique texture, its own emotional fingerprint. I tried to block them out, but they kept seeping in, like water through cracks in a dam.

What could I do? Were these truly people’s innermost thoughts?

I remembered an episode from The X-Files, where a boy could hear people’s thoughts. He told Scully, "You’re the only adult who doesn’t lie."

So, had I gained a mind-reading ability from my misfortune? I made a face. Truth was the hardest to hear. From now on, I’d live with people’s unfiltered thoughts.

Thank goodness I lived alone.

I put away my new clothes and makeup, tied up my freshly cut hair in the bathroom mirror. I looked much better than yesterday, but not quite like my old self.

The clock on the wall showed it was just past seven. I opened the bathroom window and leaned on the sill. Outside, the streetlights flickered on. A few neighbors walked their dogs. I could hear faint waves rolling in from Ocean Beach, mixed with the distant wail of sirens from deeper in the city.

Maybe I should go for a walk. As long as I stayed near the main road and steered clear of dim alleys or dunes, I’d be fine.

Without overthinking it, I grabbed my waist pouch, keys, phone, ID. I took the trash out to the curbside bin and nodded to a neighbor pulling into his driveway.

As I reached the main street, I noticed a silver van parked outside a nearby home. I walked casually along the path between the van and the hedge.

The moment I stepped into its shadow, my pulse spiked. Flash images white van, a cramped wooden interior, a nauseating, moldy stench.

It hit me so hard I dropped into a squat, trying to steady my breath. I didn’t know what the images meant, only that the walk was over. My peace had been shattered.

I just wanted to go home.

Back home, I curled up, the night heavy with unanswered voices, until dawn called me forward.

I waited for Dorian’s call. I wouldn’t tell him what happened, it would only worry him. But hearing his voice would help.

At around ten, the phone rang.

"Jenny!" Dorian sounded excited.

"Mr. Chase, what’s the good news?" I asked, catching his tone.

"Am I that easy to read? You guessed it all?" He was still beaming.

I had forgotten, I could hear thoughts and even see him in Paris.

"You’ve never escaped my sharp eyes," I teased. "And smart mind."

"Jenny, the film wrapped. I’m flying back tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be in San Francisco the day after."

"That’s amazing! Just one more night to see you again. I’ve missed you so much."

"What did you do?" he asked.

"Busy day, went to the bank, applied for cards, haircut, facial, shopping downtown."

"Finally showing your girly side. Isn’t it exhausting looking good and shopping?"

"Totally! You know I hate shopping. But I had to look presentable, you’d be scared otherwise."

"Scare me? I’ve seen you at your worst."

"This is ten times worse." I remembered a mountain run where I was late, sunburned, dusty, and cracked-lipped. He never said anything, but I still laughed when recalling my reflection in the gym mirror.

"That’s kind of cute," he said.

"You mean the sunburn and cracked lips?"

"No, your silly side. People think you’re cold, but once they know you, they laugh themselves silly."

"Hey, don’t tease me."

"It’s not teasing. No one’s like you, smart, kind, great cook."

“Oh, I know. I’m amazing, hard not to notice” I teased.

"But you don’t know how much I love you." Then he said.

"A lot? Or just a little?" I asked.

"A lot," he said quietly. "More than I ever imagined."

His words silenced me.

We’d known each other for six years. I’d been unconscious for four. We never fought. He was always busy filming or traveling. I worked at a social agency, often on call. On my own time, I ran, read, and hosted dinners.

I liked him. I liked his hugs, his voice, his smile, his gaze. But I didn’t love him. I had no expectations or heartbreaks like I did with past relationships. I didn’t cling to him.

Still, his unwavering devotion over four years moved me. Who was I to deserve such love from a man adored by thousands?

"I love you too," I said softly, remembering all he had done.

He didn’t speak. Then said, "That’s the first time you said it."

I laughed. "No way. Must be the first time you said it, or you just weren’t listening."

He smiled. "Looks like you’ve recovered, you’re teasing again."

"Only tease you. Not with just anyone."

"I know, I’m special. Are you tired? It’s past midnight. Time to sleep."

"Let’s talk when you’re back."

"Okay. Rest well."

“You too. Going out to take photos?" He wore dark denim jeans and a burnt-orange crewneck sweater, sleeves lightly pushed up. The camera lay on his bed.

"Yeah. I’ll show you later."

"Good night."

The next morning, I checked in at UCSF Medical Center and headed to the physical therapy unit. On the way from the main building to the rehab center, I ran into Nurse Camilla, who had once taken care of me. We recognized each other and exchanged polite smiles.

But as she walked past, I heard her inner voice:

“Stupid woman. Unbelievable she actually woke up.”

I spun around in shock. Her slim figure was already walking away. I was stunned. Why would she harbor such hostility? We had only ever interacted as nurse and patient. Her graceful, elegant demeanor made it hard to believe she could think that way.

She disappeared down the corridor, and I slowly turned back toward the therapy building. I went to my regular session with Dr. West, followed by a consultation with Dr. Louie. During the session, I unintentionally picked up details about Dr. West’s date the night before, and from Dr. Louie, I caught a cryptic thought:“I wonder when she’ll find out the truth?” What truth?

Back at my townhouse in Outer Sunset, I put the groceries away and, after a short break, went online to search for details of the accident. I started by typing in my name, over 6,200 results appeared, including historical figures and people who shared it.

I added the year. The results ballooned into the hundreds of thousands. I tried “Jenny Rand” instead and quickly filtered. Strangely, many people with the same name had tragic stories too. After reading through hundreds of entries, I started to feel discouraged.

I shut the laptop, made a cup of ginger honey tea, put on a Rosemary Clooney vinyl, and relaxed on the sofa with my eyes closed.

Before I knew it, I fell asleep.

Half-asleep, I remembered what I used to do in the past if I focused my mind before sleeping, the dream would follow my thoughts.

I tried to recall the accident. I pictured a highway at night, speeding cars in the dark, streetlights, a white van, a wooden cargo interior… then I fell into a dream.

I woke in a cold wind. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see by the faint light of the moon and stars I was sitting in wet mud, my hands smeared with dirt. Around me were bare trees, stones, puddles, and uneven ground.

I stood up. This was a dream. I pinched my cheek hard, no feeling. Relieved, I brushed off the mud and listened carefully to the sounds around me. Apart from rustling leaves, only wind.

Knowing it was a dream made me bolder. I remembered my love for martial arts fantasies, especially "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon," where warriors defied gravity with their ethereal light-body technique. How many times had I dreamed of floating across rooftops like they did? I scanned for a tree nearby, took a deep breath, and sprinted toward it. Three meters away, I leaped and floated easily to the treetop. Clumsily grabbing a branch, I sat down and laughed. I'd done it again.

The view from the treetop was wider, but still nothing but mud. I gauged the distance to the next tree, stood up, and leaped again, this time using the graceful light-body technique from the ancient tomb sect. I swung from branch to branch, a wild melody in my veins.

I ducked into the leaves, thankful I was wearing black. I blended right in.

Peeking ahead, I saw two or three blurry figures a hundred meters away. I couldn’t hear clearly. I jumped down and crept quietly behind a nearby tree, getting within ten meters.

One person was lying on the ground. Two women, one short-haired and stocky, the other slim with long wavy hair, were arguing intensely. Both wore dark clothes. The one on the ground wore an off-white top and light brown pants and wasn’t moving, unconscious, maybe?

I could hear the arguing, but I couldn’t understand the language, not even the dialect. Losing interest in their quarrel, I turned my focus to the woman lying in the mud. Something about her felt familiar.

I squinted, trying to get a clearer look. Her clothes, hair, hands, feet… I knew her. When I finally recognized her face, I shivered.

I ran forward without thinking, I had to see her up close.

My footsteps startled the two women. They froze and turned toward me. The short-haired one dressed like a man, but her figure gave her away. The other, though messy-haired, I recognized instantly, it was Nurse Camilla.

They stared at me in shock, then screamed and ran. I ignored them. I just wanted to see the woman on the ground.

I brushed her hair aside. Even though I had prepared myself, I still flinched. Taking a deep breath, I swallowed hard and gathered the courage to lift her up.

It was me, me from four years ago. Tanned skin, slim body, healthy hair, youthful face. I gently patted her shoulder. No response. Her arms and legs hung unnaturally, showing bruises. Blood had dried on her scalp, looked like a head injury.

I held her carefully. She was light. I walked in the direction Camilla had fled, hoping to find civilization.

Suddenly, Camilla and her companion reappeared ahead, wielding wooden sticks, eyes crazed.

“Who are you?! Put her down!” Camilla’s raspy voice rang out.

I shook my head, watching their madness.

“You think pretending to be her will scare us off?” the other woman stepped closer.

She raised the stick, aiming it like a bat at my head. I inhaled sharply. This is a dream, she can’t hurt me, I told myself. Dream people can’t either.

Still, I didn’t want to risk her hitting the me I was carrying.

I jumped four meters into the air, holding her in one arm and shielding her head with the other. Using tree trunks as springboards, I bounced from tree to tree until I spotted a mountain trail. I dashed along it.

Near dawn, I heard voices. Climbing the tallest tree, I saw six or seven elderly hikers heading my way. An idea struck. I placed my past self by the path, hoping they’d report her and get her to a hospital.

I hid nearby, watching until rescuers arrived, hikers, police, EMTs. Only when they left did I slip away.

I returned to the site where Camilla and I had been. I found it quickly. In daylight, I saw bloodstains and footprints clearly.

I thought about Camilla’s role in the dream. Maybe my subconscious had absorbed her behavior from the day, casting her into the scene.

I shook my head. Life had taught me if you can’t figure something out, let it go. I pinched my cheek again, still no feeling. I flipped through the air a few times for fun, then opened my eyes the way I always left dreams.

It was hard to open them. I was too sleepy. I forced them open, then closed them again, struggling for a few more minutes before fully waking.

I was home, on the sofa. Next to me, the ginger honey tea. The Rosemary Clooney record had stopped spinning. I looked at the clock. I had slept nearly four hours. Dorian had already boarded.

I grabbed my phone. Two missed calls and a message from him: “Where’d you go? I’m about to board. See you in 12 hours!” I replied. He wouldn’t see it until he landed in San Francisco.

I made a simple dinner, Spanish Iberico ham with tonic water and an orange for dessert.

After dinner, I felt the day’s weight settle, my mind still tangled with Camilla’s venom and that van’s stench. Exhausted, I lay in bed, willing sleep to unravel the truth, and drifted into darkness.

Round Midnight

Excerpt from Chapter Five

This is where reality fractures

As I drifted into sleep, the world shifted. Moonlight and shadows stretched around me, more real than any dream. “Don’t you find the countryside refreshing?” a voice whispered, like wind through treetops. “Depends on the mood,” I replied, heart steady. “No, I’m just too excited,” I shot back. It laughed, crisp and lingering. “The universe is boundless, with endless lifeforms. Humanity is just one. We’ve watched Earth rise and fall, reset by chaos or interference. Even your Mars windows—those fleeting opportunities to reach the red planet—are part of a larger cycle we’ve guided.” I frowned. “A cycle?”

......You've seen the truth, now follow it

Available now on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited

ABOUT

Jane P. Carter

I’m Jane P. Carter, a sci-fi author drawn to cosmic mysteries, hidden truths, and fearless heroes. My debut novel, Round Midnight, blends alien conspiracies, noir intrigue, and the smoky rhythm of jazz into a gripping sci-fi thriller. Inspired by real-world events and the haunting vocals of legends like Julie London and Billie Holiday, I explore the intersection of advanced technology, human resilience, and the unknown.

When I’m not writing, I’m playing with my four little furry honeys, diving into other sci-fi worlds, or listening to my favorite rendition of “Round Midnight.”

Start the Transmission

Let the signal in before the deadline hits midnight.
It pairs well with what’s coming.