After I woke from the coma, doctors kept me in the hospital for two additional weeks. They said my body needed rest and that recovery couldn’t be rushed. Days blended together beneath fluorescent lights, marked by medication schedules and the steady rhythm of medical machines.
Every night at exactly eleven, a woman in hospital scrubs entered my room.
She never checked my monitors or asked about my condition. Instead, she pulled a chair beside my bed, sat down, and talked for exactly thirty minutes—never more, never less.
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