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I rise through a softness that doesn’t belong to morning~ a pale, suspended hush and time has loosened its grip and everything waits. After anesthesia, the world returns in fragments: a voice shaped like water, light bending without edges, my own name drifting toward me as if unsure where to land. I am neither here nor gone, just floating in the seam between forgetting and recall, held by a gentleness I didn’t know I needed. Then breath finds its rhythm. Then the room gathers itself. Then the body remembers how to be a body again. And I open my eyes to the simple miracle of being welcomed back~ slowly, quietly, as though waking were a kind of grace.
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