The morning light spills through the glass wall like honey poured from an invisible pitcher—slow, golden, almost thick enough to touch. It drifts across the polished marble floor in soft waves, catching the dust motes floating in the air and turning them into tiny suspended stars.
The room is warm now, but not with the oppressive heat of before.
This is a different warmth. A gentle one.
The kind that wraps around your bones and reminds you that you survived the night.
I move slowly.
My body feels unfamiliar. Not with illness or fever—but with the strange quietness that comes after a storm finally passes. The air is still. The silence is soft. There's no burning in my veins, no fire beneath my skin, no desperate hunger clawing through me from the inside out.
Just... relief. Clean. Quiet. Unfamiliar.
Why does my body feel so light?
My eyes open. Blink once. Then again. The ceiling slowly comes into focus above me, warm morning light shifting across its smooth surface.
