I woke up, blinking against the harsh, sterile light overhead. My mind was a foggy, disjointed mess, struggling to piece together the fragments of memory that floated through my consciousness like scattered leaves in the wind. What had happened? The last thing I could recall was the sound of screeching tires, the flash of metal, and then... nothing. Just an abyss of darkness that seemed to stretch on forever.

But then, like a cold, sharp knife slicing through the fog, the memory of Lucas surged to the forefront of my mind.

Lucas had died. And I had let him go, let him slip away into the void with nothing but a shuddering cry that echoed through the deepest corners of my soul.

I could feel myself falling apart, unraveling at the seams as the weight of my loss bore down on me. My hands trembled, my chest tightened, and I wanted to scream, to cry out in agony, but no sound escaped my lips. The pain was too deep, too raw, and all I could do was lie there, consumed by it.

Suddenly, a soft voice broke through the haze of my despair, pulling me back to the present.

"Mary, don't worry,"

The voice said gently. I turned my head to see a nurse standing beside my bed, her expression kind and reassuring.

"You're at Vinesweed’s hospital. I'm Diane, and I'm so glad you're back with us."

The words barely registered at first, my mind still reeling from the shock of awakening. But as Diane spoke, her calm demeanor began to penetrate the fog that clouded my thoughts.

"Mary, don't worry,"

She repeated, her voice soothing.

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"Everything will be fine."

I wanted to believe her, but how could anything be fine when Lucas was gone? The emptiness inside me felt like a gaping wound, one that no amount of reassurance could heal. And yet, there was something about Diane's presence that offered a small measure of comfort, a tiny flicker of hope in the midst of my despair.

The doctors arrived shortly after, their faces a mix of relief and amazement. They explained that I had been in a third-degree coma for several weeks, but they spoke of it as though I had merely been dreaming peacefully. How could they not understand the depths of the nightmare I had lived through? The loss, the guilt, the unrelenting grief—it was anything but peaceful.

"Your recovery is nothing short of miraculous,"

One of the doctors remarked, his tone tinged with disbelief.

"We weren't sure you'd ever wake up, but here you are, as if nothing ever happened."

But something had happened. Something terrible and irreversible. The doctors couldn’t see the invisible scars that marred my soul, the lingering shadows of the accident that had stolen Lucas from me. They spoke of tests and check-ups, of confirming my medical stability, but none of it mattered. What was the point of physical health when my heart was broken beyond repair?

Yet, there was a strange detachment in my thoughts, as if part of me was still lingering in the dreamworld I had inhabited during my coma. The vividness of that place, the clarity of the sensations, the way the trees and butterflies had seemed almost sentient—it all felt more real than the sterile environment of the hospital. The doctors' voices seemed distant, their words muffled, as if I were hearing them from underwater. The only thing that felt tangible was the overwhelming sense of loss that weighed heavily on my chest.

In the days that followed, the hospital staff kept a close eye on me, running countless tests to ensure that my sudden recovery wasn’t just a fleeting miracle. But despite their best efforts to keep me there, I knew I had to leave. The sterile walls, the clinical smell, the constant hum of machines—it all felt suffocating, like a cage that was slowly closing in on me. I needed to escape, to find a place where I could breathe again, where I could remember who I was before the accident had shattered my life.

And so, once the doctors were satisfied with my progress, they reluctantly agreed to discharge me, though they insisted on regular check-ups to monitor my condition.