When I wake up again, I find doctors and nurses surrounding me.
My mother and my sister are there too.
It almost feels like a welcome.
This time, I wake up feeling quieter, warmer, and though the lag between what happens and what I process is still there, it's not as severe as before.
A delay that, maybe, is correcting itself little by little.
I feel ashamed. Embarrassed, as if the accident were my fault.
I want to ask about her.
My mother is crying with joy, and my sister throws herself toward me, only to stop at the last second and simply take my hand.
But no voice comes out.
Only a strangled murmur.
I clear my throat.
I cough, trying to force my voice out.
Someone hands me a glass of water.
I drink.
And drink.
And drink like a shipwrecked man finally pulled from the sea.
I choke.
I cough.
I vomit the water back up.
I cough again, clear my throat, and then—barely a whisper—
I ask:
"Where is she?"
The room falls into absolute silence.
I fear the answer.
I fear that she is dead.
But deep down, I already know the truth.
I'm not really asking because I don't know. I'm asking because I need confirmation.
Because I don't want to seem indifferent.
Because my first words after waking up should matter.
I know she's dead.
I just need to hear them say it.
"Where is Daniela?"
My sister breaks down, sobbing uncontrollably.
My mother faints.
I try to sit up, but the doctors hold me down.
One of them locks eyes with me, speaking in slow, firm sentences—words I can't understand.
It's as if, suddenly, everything they say is in some foreign, unfamiliar language.
As if all sound is being swallowed by the space between my ears and the air.
I feel everyone's eyes on me.
A creeping, sepulchral cold seeps into my bones.
The doctor grips my shoulders, forcing my gaze to stay locked onto his, speaking more slowly, almost shouting—but I still can't understand him.
It's like they're speaking a language I no longer have access to.
I turn away from him.
My eyes find the glass panel separating my hospital room from the hallway—
And I see them.
Three figures.
A woman.
A bald, burly man.
And a child.
I don't understand what the doctor is saying anymore.
I can't stop looking at them.
Why are they there?
Why are they watching me?
They don't look like hospital staff.
They don't look like patients.
Something is... off about them.
Their clothing.
Their stance.
Their gaze.
It's as if they're waiting for me.
As if I'm supposed to do something.
There's a darkness to them.
Something heavy.
Something... unnatural.
The doctor grabs my face, forces me to look at him again.
For a moment, I hold his gaze—
But then I turn back toward the glass.
The three figures haven't moved.
They're still there.
Still watching.
Still waiting.
The doctor speaks again.
I feel like I should be listening to him, but I can't.
I can't do anything except focus on them.
And then—
Suddenly, my body begins to shut down.
A cold, unbearable, metal-like chill begins crawling up my legs—
Slithering across my skin—
Spreading through my chest, my shoulders—
A freezing fire ignites beneath my skin.
It rises.
Up.
Up.
Up—
Until my entire face burns with ice—
And then, all at once, it consumes me.
Like a switch, my body shuts off.
The world plunges into darkness.
A whisper—
"Jump."