Week thirteen marked Emma's first full week as a hospital inpatient. The room became her entire world—beige walls, beeping monitors, industrial linoleum floors, and a view of Manhattan she could see but not reach. From her bed, she could watch the city move—cars streaming down streets, people walking purposefully to destinations, helicopters crossing the sky. All of it happening without her.
The irony wasn't lost on Emma. She'd spent years fighting for independence, for agency, for the right to make her own choices. And now, her only choice was to lie still and hope her body cooperated.
Alexander had tried to make the space more personal. Photos from their wedding lined the windowsill—Emma laughing in her emerald dress, Alexander looking at her like she hung the moon. A picture from their honeymoon in Santorini, both of them sun-drunk and happy. The Maine house where they'd escaped. Reminders of a life that felt impossibly distant now.
