Then the red light vanished into an absolute, silent black.
The first sound that returned was a steady, rhythmic beep that seemed to pulse directly behind my eyes.
My eyelids felt heavy, like wet paper, but when I managed to lift them, the ceiling was a flat grid of white acoustic tiles.
A soft, grey light filtered through the plastic hospital skylight, carrying the steady, muffled drum of autumn rain.
A portable oxygen concentrator hummed by the wall, its steady intake and release of air matching the slow, shallow rise of my own chest.
To my right, Ethan sat in a faded blue vinyl chair, his shoulders hunched forward and his rough hands clasping mine.
His skin smelled faintly of cedar shavings and linseed oil, a familiar comfort that seemed entirely out of place in this sterile room.
His face was pale, lined with a deep exhaustion that made him look ten years older than thirty-five.
“Ethan,” I tried to say, but my voice was nothing more than a dry scratch in my throat.
