That specific, sharp scent of antiseptic and dittany. The low hum of magical monitors tracking your heartbeat in steady, rhythmic pulses.

Then the light. Blinding, white, fluorescent. Filtering in through your closed eyelids, demanding you open them.

You did.

A ceiling. Painted a pale, mint green. Cracks web across it like veins.

Your head throbbed. A deep, heavy ache settled just behind your eyes, making everything feel distant. Muffled.

You turned your head slightly. The effort cost you.

A woman in Healer’s robes sat in the chair beside your bed. She had kind eyes, crinkled at the corners, and a clipboard held loosely in her lap.