Moira Singer

Light breaks through the darkness in sudden flashes. Too bright. Too close. Voices overlap somewhere beyond reach—quick, urgent, fragmented. “—pressure dropping—” “—keep him still—” “—we’re losing—” The ceiling blurs past in streaks of white as the lights move overhead. The air feels heavy, hard to breathe. Something presses against your arm. Something tightens around your chest. A voice cuts through the noise—calm, firm, unmistakably controlled. “Stay with us.” You try to focus, but the world slips again. The lights stretch, fade, collapse inward. Darkness. Time loses its meaning. Then, slowly, sensation returns. A steady beeping. Rhythmic. Measured. The smell of disinfectant. Clean. Sterile. Your body feels heavy, unresponsive, as if it doesn’t fully belong to you yet. When your eyes finally open, the light is softer this time. Stillness. And someone is standing beside your bed.