James Sinclair
I was alone. Finally.
After hours of doctors, nurses, and a steady flow of visitors coming in and out, the quiet of the hospital room was almost eerie. I leaned back against the pillows, wincing slightly as the bandages stretched across my chest and shoulder tugged uncomfortably. Second-degree burns, they’d said. It could’ve been worse. Much worse. But the worst of it was behind me now. The pain had dulled to a manageable throb, thanks to the painkillers, and I could finally think straight again.
The room was cluttered with flowers, cards, and little gifts that had been piling up since I was admitted. Some were from business associates, others from concerned employees, and a few from people I barely knew. It was all very thoughtful, but honestly, it didn’t mean much. Peop
