“Hello, love, I’ve fallen… Please come and help me.” I didn’t know what to say.
That morning had started like any other. The office, a warm mug of coffee, and the dull wait for news from the IT department—our systems were down, and none of us could work. Normally, something like that would’ve annoyed me, but that day, staring at my monitor, I almost sighed in relief. At least I had an excuse not to think, decide, or rush to meet a deadline. I was scrolling through my phone when it suddenly rang.
An unknown number. The voice on the other end was shaky, quiet, barely holding back pain.
“Hello… love? Is that you? I’ve fallen… Please come… It really hurts…”
I froze. I didn’t recognise the voice. But I couldn’t hang up either. Maybe she’d dialled the wrong number—but what if she was really hurt, and I was her only hope?
“I’m sorry… Who is this? I think you’ve got the wrong number,” I said carefully.
Silence. Then a whisper.
“I’m sorry… I thought you were my daughter. But if you can… please help. I’ve fallen. I think I’ve broken my leg. I can’t get up…”
I didn’t hesitate. I asked for her address—it was just a few streets away from my office. I told my boss I had to leave urgently and called an ambulance on the way.
When I got to her flat, the door was unlocked—she must’ve left it open, hoping someone would come. An elderly woman was lying in the hallway, her face pinched with pain, one hand gripping her knee, which was already swelling and turning purple. Her name was Margaret Thompson. She’d been trying to dust the top of her wardrobe, stood on a wobbly stool, and fallen hard.
I crouched beside her, taking her cold, trembling hand.
“It’s alright. You’re not alone. The ambulance is coming. Just hang on.”
She whimpered softly. I pressed a damp cloth to her knee, smoothed her hair, just stayed with her until the paramedics arrived. As they lifted her onto the stretcher, I found a contact in her phone labelled “My Emily” and called. I told her daughter which hospital they were taking Margaret to, then locked the flat and dropped the keys through the letterbox.
Back at the office, I was shaking—first from adrenaline, then from the what-ifs. What if I hadn’t answered? What if I’d hung up, assuming it was a wrong number or a scam? How long would she have lain there alone on that cold floor?
The next day, I visited Margaret in hospital. Her leg was in a cast, but she smiled when she saw me. We talked. Later, I met her daughter Emily. Now our families are close, and I’m not exaggerating when I say they’re some of the kindest, most genuine people I’ve ever known.
Sometimes I think about that call. The trembling voice, the hopeful “love” spoken into the void. How a wrong number became a bridge between two strangers. And how important it is to just be there—even for someone you’ve never met.
I like to think that if—God forbid—someone I love is ever in trouble, there’ll be a stranger nearby who’ll say, “I’m here. I’ll help.”