The morning light glows in the room, soft and hesitant, slipping through the heavy curtains drawn across the glass wall. The fabric is thick, expensive—the kind meant to block out the world entirely—but even it cannot keep the sun out completely. Slivers of gold find their way through the gaps, painting the dim space in shifting shades of amber and honey. Dust motes drift lazily in the narrow beams, suspended like tiny stars caught between sleep and waking.
I shift on the couch, my body protesting with a dull, familiar ache settling deep into my muscles. The cushions are softer than they look, but still—a couch is a couch, and my body knows it.
My eyes open slowly. I blink against the soft light and stare up at the white, polished ceiling above me. There's a faint seam near the corner, barely visible unless you're looking for something to focus on.
I've stared at it before.
In other rooms.
In other hospitals.
In other moments of waiting.
