White ceiling. White walls. White sheets pulled up to your waist. The only color came from the late afternoon sun bleeding through the blinds, casting long golden stripes across the floor.

Sterile. Quiet. Still.

Your hands rested in your lap. Bandages wrapped around your knuckles. Clean. Neat. Someone had taken care of you.

The clock on the wall ticked. Each second felt louder than it should have been.

A soft knock.

Three short raps. Polite. Measured. Then a pause. Muffled voices on the other side. Low words exchanged. A hand finding the handle.

The door swung open.

Behind him, a flash of yellow. A familiar silhouette. Bigger than it used to be. Thinner. The figure moved into view.