I set the last button of my shirt into place and let out a slow breath I didn't know I'd been holding. The fabric settles against my skin—clean, familiar, mine. No more hospital gown falling open at the back, no more IV tubes snaking into my arm, no more lying here staring at the glass wall, the city spread far below.
Two days of tests and whispers and needles sliding into the crook of my elbow. Two days of feeling like I was just borrowing this body, waiting for the real owner to come back and claim it.
Today, finally, I'm free.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my palms pressed flat against the soft mattress, and let my shoulders drop. The afternoon sunlight pours through the glass wall, casting long bands of gold across the polished floor, catching dust motes suspended in the still air.
