She wakes to the sound of her own breath being measured.
A soft mechanical rhythm marks the room—oxygen through tubing, a monitor registering pulse in obedient green blips. The ceiling above her is a grid of pale squares, evenly spaced, indifferent.
For a moment she doesn’t move. She lets awareness assemble in pieces: the weight of the IV line taped to her hand, the faint antiseptic scent, the dryness at the back of her throat.
Then she turns her head.
The chair beside her bed is angled toward her, positioned with intention. Close enough for conversation. Close enough for someone to lean forward and take her hand.
The cushion is perfectly smooth.
No jacket draped over the back. No bag at its feet. No phone charger coiled on the floor.
It has been prepared for vigil and never used.
