Sunlight filtered through the holes in the window blinds, casting pale golden streaks across the room. The translucent curtains fluttered in the artificial breeze from the air conditioning, diffusing the light into a muted glow. Even that gentle illumination felt overwhelming.

I couldn't lift my head to see beyond the glass; I could only imagine how picturesque it might be—the garden outside with its roses, the trees beginning swaying, and the world moving on without me while I remained frozen in this sterile cocoon.

I couldn't move, not even twitch my fingers. My body felt like it belonged to someone else; it was a distant vessel that refused to respond to my desperate commands.

The steady hum of the air conditioner created a monotonous backdrop, punctuated by the faint rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. The scent of sterile hospital sheets mingled with the mustiness of stale air, creating that uniquely medical atmosphere.

Footsteps echoed outside the room, their rhythm familiar after months of listening to the hospital's daily symphony. They approached in pairs, measured and cautious—different from the brisk stride of nurses or the authoritative click of doctors' shoes.

Though I couldn't turn my head, my peripheral vision stretched to its limit, just enough to glimpse the movement at the doorway.

The door creaked open.

It was Molly.

Her brown hair was pulled back in a messy bun, strands escaping to frame her face as though she'd been running her fingers through it all day. She clutched a bouquet of red roses in one hand, a box of chocolates in the other.

Her shoulders were squared, but the tension in her neck betrayed her effort to keep her composure. She wore the green sweater I gave her last Christmas, and somehow that small detail made my chest ache more than anything else.

A familiar, larger figure followed closely behind. James—her boyfriend—whose rough, calloused hand rested gently on her shoulder in silent support. His face was turned slightly away, but I could tell he was trying to be strong for her.

He'd grown a beard since I first met him. Well, not literally. I met him here when Molly first visited me. It made him look older.

Molly let out a shaky breath so slow and controlled it almost seemed rehearsed. She was trying not to break. She had been here so many times before. Too many times.

I counted each visit in my head, marking time by her appearances.

I longed to smile at her, to tell her I was still here, but my body refused me that simple act. The frustration of being trapped in this unresponsive shell had become a constant companion.

It had been exactly four months and twelve days since I ended up in this bed. I couldn’t remember everything, but I could make out some of it—the island, the danger, the choices I made.

My vision, oddly enough, had become clearer without my glasses as if my body had given up on everything else but sharpening my remaining senses. I could see every detail of Molly's face with crystal clarity—the dark circles under her eyes, the slight tremble in her lower lip, the way her mascara had smudged slightly at the corner of her right eye.

The door clicked shut behind them. Molly stood there a moment longer, unmoving, staring at me as if trying to memorize my face. Then, slowly, she crossed the room, her shoes making soft squeaking sounds against the linoleum floor.

"It's okay, babe," James whispered softly behind her, his voice gentle but carrying an undertone of worry. "Everything's going to be okay. You're doing great."

Molly nodded, but her voice trembled. "Thanks, babe. I know... I just—" Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. "I didn't think it would still be this hard. I thought maybe after all this time—"

She didn't finish, but she didn't need to. I knew what she meant. She'd hoped it would get easier, that the sight of her once-vibrant sister lying motionless wouldn't feel like a punch to the gut every single time.

James offered a half-smile, trying to comfort her. His eyes crinkled at the corners, showing the genuine care behind his awkward attempt at consolation. "You've seen her like this a thousand times already. Maybe today, something will be different. Maybe today—" He stopped short, hesitant to voice false hope. "You ready?"

She forced a nod. "Yeah. I have to be. I don't have a choice, do I?"

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "By the way, my friends want to visit later. Is that okay? They've been asking about her."

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"Friends? You mean those two from work? Hannah and Michael?"

"Yeah. You know I don't have many friends. You keep saying I'm only allowed two because you need me all to yourself," he teased, offering a weak grin.

A small smirk ghosted across Molly's face, but it faded as quickly as it came, like sunshine breaking through clouds only to be swallowed up again.

"Play the song again," she whispered, looking at the phone he clutched in his hand. "Just... play it. I need her to know we're here. That we haven't forgotten."

James hesitated, his thumb hovering over the screen. "You think she can hear us?" His voice was quieter now, unsure, laden with the weight of months of uncertainty.

"Of course, she can. Why wouldn't she?" Molly insisted, her voice rising defensively. "The doctors said coma patients can often hear everything. They said we should talk to her, play music, keep her connected."

"Well..." He cleared his throat. "It'd be kind of terrifying if she's been hearing everything we've said for months and just... can't respond. All our conversations, all our arguments, all the stupid jokes I've made trying to make you smile..."

If only he knew. I had been hearing everything. Every visit. Every whispered word. Every tearful confession and desperate plea. Every time Molly read to me from my favorite books, every time she told me about her day, and every time she begged me to wake up.

He hit play, and the melody flowed softly from his phone's speakers. It was "River Flows in You" by Yiruma, a melody so beautiful it seemed to wrap around us like a warm blanket, cradling the silence rather than shattering it.

We'd listened to it together countless times before, during late-night study sessions and long bus rides from Tabogon to the city and vice versa.

Molly squeezed the bouquet tighter, then she stepped forward as if the music gave her courage. The roses brushed against the side of my bed as she set them gently on the nightstand, replacing last week's wilted flowers with fresh blooms.

The hospital room was simple but had become home over the past months. White walls with a faint cerulean tint gave the space a soft, calming glow. Blue curtains shifted lazily near the window, dancing with the artificial breeze.

On the floor, a tapestry lay partially folded, the design showing a lion rising from a cracked stone table—a scene from Narnia. Molly had put it here weeks ago, saying it reminded her of the power of hope, of resurrection, of coming back from the impossible.

The cross on the wall above the bed caught the sunlight, casting a pale reflection against the sheets. It had been there when I arrived, and sometimes I wondered how many prayers it had witnessed in this room before mine.

And then there was the smell.

A sour, unpleasant scent lingered in the air; it was an unbearable mix of week-old laundry and something more putrid—rotten fruit, perhaps. Or dried vomit. The nurses tried their best to keep everything clean, but there was only so much they could do.

Or maybe it was just me.

James wrinkled his nose. "Wow. This room smells... bad. Really bad."

Molly shot him a glare that could have frozen hell itself. "Don't be rude."

"I'm just saying! It's... pungent. What if she—uh—discharged herself or something?" He gestured awkwardly toward me, clearly trying to make light of the situation.

Molly's face darkened, color rising in her cheeks. She smacked his arm with her handbag. The sound echoed in the quiet room.

"Do you think this is funny? Do you think any of this is a joke?" Her voice rose sharply. "I asked you here for support, not to crack jokes about my sister's condition. I can't believe you'd say something like that!"

James took a step back, raising both hands defensively, his eyes wide with regret. "Hey, hey! I'm sorry, okay? I was just trying to lighten the mood. You've been so stressed lately, and I thought—"

"Well, you thought wrong!" she snapped, her voice cracking like thin ice. Tears welled up in her eyes, and this time, she didn't fight them back. "Do you think any of this is easy for me? I'm scared! Every single day, I come here hoping she'll be okay, and she's still—she's still just lying there, and I can't do anything to help her!"

Her voice broke completely, the words dissolving into quiet sobs.

James stood frozen, his face a mask of helpless regret. "Babe... I didn't mean to—"

"Just leave!" she whispered, her whole body trembling. "Please. I need to be alone with her. Just... go."

For a moment, he lingered, torn between staying to comfort her and respecting her wish for solitude. Then, he nodded, defeated. "Okay... I'll be outside if you need me. I love you. I’ll put my phone here."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving us alone with the piano music and the steady beeping of machines.

Molly sank into the chair beside my bed, her hands trembling as she clasped mine in hers. Her fingers were warm against my cool skin, and I wished more than anything that I could squeeze back—could offer some small sign of comfort.

"Hey," she whispered, her voice thick with tears. "I thought we were supposed to go to the movies today. Remember? That new horror movie you've been dying to see came out. I brought your favorite chocolates—Ferrero Rocher. You better wake up soon, or I'm going to eat them all myself."

Her forced chuckle died as quickly as it came, her voice wavering. "Please... wake up. I don't want to go home alone again today. I don't want to keep wondering if tomorrow will be different."

She bent forward, pressing her forehead against the back of my hand. Her body shook with quiet sobs. The weight of months of helplessness crashed down on her like a wave. Her tears felt warm against my skin, and each one was like a knife to my heart.

I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to speak. To move. To tell her that I was still here, still fighting, still trying to find my way back.

Then, just as the last ray of sunlight slipped beyond the horizon, painting the room in shades of purple and gold, something happened.

My fingers twitched.