It wasn’t the flat, sterile white of hospital fluorescents, or the dim, final haze of a fading consciousness. It was warm. Golden. It streamed through the gaps in the blinds, painting stripes across a familiar, untouched duvet.

The air smelled of clean cotton and the faint, expensive cologne that always lingered in the hallway. There was no scent of antiseptic. No beeping monitors. No sound of a broken voice begging a god that wouldn't listen.

Your body felt light. Whole. The deep, marrow-deep ache of sickness was gone, replaced by the slight stiffness of a morning stretch. You were in your bedroom. The one in the house you shared with him. The one you always kept meticulously separate.

On the nightstand beside you, in a simple glass vase, was a bouquet of stargazer lilies. A small, stiff card leaned against it.