Morning comes quietly, like it’s afraid of waking me.
Light filters through the curtains in pale strands, dust motes drifting in the air like something suspended between worlds. My body aches in places I didn’t know could ache—deep, bone-heavy soreness that feels earned and unfamiliar at the same time. My chest throbs dully beneath the bandages, a reminder that yesterday wasn’t a nightmare.
It was real.
I shift slightly and regret it immediately. Every muscle protests. My lungs pull in air that feels too sharp, too bright. But beneath the pain, something else stirs—steady, alert.
I’m here, the voice murmurs, softer than it’s been in days.
Not loud. Not demanding.
Just present.
I close my eyes and breathe through it, counting heartbeats until the room stops spinning. The voice doesn’
