The morning light was soft and uncertain — the kind that slipped through thin hospital curtains like it was afraid to intrude. The world outside hummed faintly, but in this room, everything moved slower.
Aria stirred against the white sheets, her body aching in places she didn’t know could ache. The air was cool, sterile. Somewhere down the hall, a baby cried — not hers, not yet.
She blinked, and the world came into focus — the quiet beeping, the muted shuffle of shoes on linoleum. A nurse glanced over and smiled gently.
“You’re awake,” she whispered, adjusting the IV line by Aria’s wrist. “How do you feel?”
Aria tried to speak, but her throat was dry. “Like I… ran a marathon,” she rasped. The nurse’s smile deepened, warm and kind.
“That’s about right,” she said softly. “You were stro
