The ceiling above her didn't change, but something in her body shifted—a restless tension that made stillness unbearable. Clara had lain like a doll for hours, pinned by tubes and monitors, listening to that unfamiliar rhythm beat inside her chest. She couldn't stand it anymore. She had to move.
Her fingers twitched first, pale against the crisp white sheet. Then her arm. The IV line pulled uncomfortably, but she managed to flex her wrist, rotate her hand. Strange, how weak she felt. Muscles that once obeyed instantly now trembled like they'd forgotten their purpose.
Slowly, painfully, she bent her elbow and laid her hand against her torso, fingers splayed across the bandaged scar. The gauze was stiff beneath her palm, the flesh beneath swollen and hot. She pressed lightly.
A jolt shot through her—not pain exactly, but a fierce awareness of the thing thudding beneath her touch. Too loud. Too strong. Her breath caught.
That wasn't her body. Not the one she had known.
The truth came like an unwelcome whisper: she was wearing someone else inside her.
Clara swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in her eyes. She wanted to push herself upright, to prove she could still command her body, but the effort made her arms shake. She gritted her teeth, lifted her shoulders an inch from the bed, and then—sharp fire lanced down her sternum.
A cry broke free before she could stop it.
The monitor leapt in tempo, alarms chirping a high-pitched warning.
Her chest felt like it might rip open. She froze, gasping, terror tightening around her ribs. What if it was rejecting? What if her body spat this heart out, left her to die again?
Her breathing hitched, shallow and frantic. She clawed at the sheets, nails digging into the stiff fabric.
"No—no, no, no—"
"Clara!" The nurse appeared so fast it was as though she'd been waiting outside the door. She rushed to the bedside, her voice firm, commanding. "Stop moving. Lie back."
Clara couldn't. Her lungs fought her, her pulse galloping.
The nurse pressed a hand firmly against Clara's shoulder, guiding her flat against the bed again. "Look at me. Look. At. Me."
Clara's wide eyes locked on the nurse's steady brown gaze.
"You're not dying," the woman said, slow and deliberate. "You're panicking. Your heart is fine. But if you fight it, you'll make it worse. Do you hear me?"
Tears blurred everything. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think.
The nurse reached for the oxygen mask hanging nearby, fitting it gently but firmly over Clara's face. Cool, clean air flooded her mouth and nose, sharp but grounding. "In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Count with me—one, two, three…"
Clara tried. The first inhale rattled, shallow, but she forced it down. The exhale came jagged, catching on a sob. Again. Again.
Slowly, agonizingly, her body began to obey. Her lungs filled. Her ribs expanded without splintering. Her shoulders sagged back against the bed.
The monitor softened its frantic pace, each beep syncing into something steadier.
"There." The nurse's voice lost its edge, smoothing back into gentleness. She adjusted the flow of oxygen, keeping one hand on Clara's arm as if to tether her to the bed. "Good girl. That's it. Let the heart do the work for you. Don't fight it."
Clara closed her eyes, letting the hiss of oxygen drown out the pounding in her chest. But she could still feel it. Stronger than before, almost proud of itself, hammering as if to say I saved you. I belong here now.
But it didn't.
It wasn't hers.
Her lips trembled beneath the mask. Her voice was muffled, but she whispered anyway: "It's not me."
The nurse heard. She didn't argue this time. Just brushed a stray strand of Clara's damp hair back from her forehead, the gesture oddly intimate. "You'll get used to it. Your mind just needs time to accept what your body already knows—that you're alive."
Alive.
Clara's fingers curled tightly into the sheets. Alive because someone else wasn't.
The thought pierced sharper than the incision. Somewhere, a body had gone cold so hers could keep warm. Someone's laughter had ended so her breath could keep rattling in and out of her lungs. Someone's heart—this heart—had been stolen from its home and shoved into hers.
Her chest clenched. She squeezed her eyes shut, but all she saw in the dark was faceless shadows collapsing, faceless parents weeping, faceless doctors pronouncing the word donor.
Her body betrayed her again with a shiver. Not from cold, but from something deeper, more primal. Guilt.
The nurse mistook it for pain and fussed with the IV, adjusting the drip. "Rest, Clara. No more moving for now. You're safe."
Safe.
The word rang hollow.
She didn't feel safe. She felt invaded.
She pressed her hand weakly to her chest again, over the scar, over the furious thudding that refused to match her soul's rhythm. Her body was alive, yes—but she felt stolen. A counterfeit version of herself.
Her lips formed the thought though no sound came: Someone had to die for me to live.
And that someone was now living inside her.