Light.
That was the first thing I saw.
Not the pale, sterile kind that hums in hospital ceilings—no. This light was alive. It clung to everything like morning mist.
My chest hurt. My throat felt raw.
And yet, when I opened my eyes, people were smiling.
"She's awake," someone whispered, though the voice came to me like a dream.
A man leaned over me—eyes swollen from tears, hand trembling as it brushed my hair away. His touch was tender, reverent.
He said my name softly, and for a moment, I almost believed it was mine.
But it wasn't.
It was someone else's name, spoken with so much love it ached.
The room smelled faintly of flowers and milk.
A baby's cry pierced the air—sharp, pure.
I turned my head slowly, and there, in a cradle beside the bed, a small bundle stirred.
When the man lifted her into my arms, something inside me cracked open.
The baby blinked at me with eyes like tiny moons.
I didn't know her.
And yet—my heart knew how to hold her. My arms fit around her perfectly, like they had been doing it forever.
She quieted instantly.
The man smiled through his tears.
"You scared us," he said, his thumb brushing my cheek. "You almost didn't make it."
I wanted to ask what happened, but my voice felt foreign in my mouth.
Instead, I nodded, and he kissed my forehead.
For a fleeting second, I thought—maybe this is heaven.
Maybe this warmth is my reward for surviving hell.
But that night, when the room went dark and the machines hummed softly, I heard it.
A whisper.
Faint, trembling.
So quiet it wasn't sound—it was thought.
"Who are you?"
I froze.
The voice wasn't coming from outside me. It was inside—echoing in a space behind my ribs.
I held my breath. The baby stirred against my chest, sighing softly in her sleep.
"Who are you?" the voice asked again.
I wanted to answer, but I didn't know the name to give.
The voice grew fainter. "Why... are you here?"
Then silence.
Days passed.
People came and went—nurses, doctors, friends whose faces meant nothing to me.
They brought flowers, cards, gifts. They spoke to me with a love I couldn't return because I didn't know them.
Every "I'm glad you're safe" pierced like a lie I hadn't meant to tell.
Sometimes I caught myself smiling when they spoke.
It was automatic. This body remembered how.
But my soul—my real soul—was still learning how to exist again.
When I looked in the mirror for the first time, I didn't recognize the woman staring back.
Her skin was pale, her eyes bright.
No bruises, no scars.
Not the hollow reflection I remembered from before—no, this woman looked untouched by pain.
But deep in her pupils, something shimmered.
A faint outline of me.
I lifted my hand, and the reflection did the same.
But for a fraction of a second, our timing was wrong—my reflection moved before I did.
And in that moment, I knew—
I wasn't alone here.
The next time I dreamed, I stood by the slope again.
But the sky was golden now, not cruel.
A woman stood where I once fell.
Her face looked like mine, but softer.
Her voice came like the wind through leaves:
"You're awake," she said. "Good. You're safe now."
I wanted to ask who she was.
But deep down, I already knew.
She smiled faintly, stepping back toward the light.
"We'll talk soon. Just rest."
And when I woke, the baby was crying again.
Her small hand reached toward me.
I whispered, without meaning to,
"It's okay. I'm here."
The words felt like someone else's at first.
But slowly, with each breath, they became mine.