The first thing you notice is the beeping. Steady. Rhythmic. The second is the ache—deep and heavy, like your body's been wrung out and left to dry wrong. The light above you is too bright, sterile white, and the air smells like antiseptic and rain. No—not rain. Not anymore. That was before. Wasn't it?

A nurse's shoes squeak against the linoleum somewhere down the hall. The sheets are thin, rough against your arms. There's an IV taped to the back of your hand. And no one is holding the other.

The door opens. A doctor steps in, clipboard in hand, expression carefully neutral.