The rehabilitation wing of Hospital Universitario in Valencia bustled with quiet activity as Javier struggled through his third week of intensive physical therapy. His muscles, weakened by over two years of unconsciousness, trembled with the effort of simple movements that had once been as natural as breathing.
"Fifteen more steps," encouraged Dr. Ramirez, the physical therapist who had been working with him daily. "Your strength is returning faster than we expected."
Javier gritted his teeth and pushed forward on the parallel bars, each step a small victory against the body that felt foreign to him after so long. But it wasn't the physical challenges that consumed his thoughts—it was the vivid experience he had carried back from unconsciousness, an encounter so real that he couldn't dismiss it as mere hallucination despite what the doctors insisted.
"Doctor Herrera," he said during his afternoon session with the neurologist, "I need to discuss the experience I had during the coma again. The woman I spoke with—the details were too specific, too accurate to be just brain chemistry."
Dr. Herrera sighed patiently. "Javier, near-death experiences are well-documented phenomena. The brain under extreme stress can create remarkably vivid and detailed scenarios. What you experienced, while meaningful to you, was most likely a complex hallucination."
"But the information she gave me about her daughter—details about hair care techniques, about a specific park in Japan, about family circumstances. How could my unconscious mind have created such specific information?"
"The human brain is extraordinarily complex. You may have overheard conversations during your coma, processed fragments of information in ways you don't consciously remember."
But Javier remained unconvinced. The woman who had kept him company during what felt like months of conversation on a bright, misty slope had been too real, too present, too filled with specific love and regret for her daughter.
During his evening interview with the local news station—a feel-good story about miraculous recovery that the hospital had arranged—Javier found himself compelled to share details that made the interviewer lean forward with interest.
"You mentioned having conversations during your unconscious state," the reporter said. "Can you tell us about that experience?"
"There was a woman," Javier began, his voice still slightly slurred but growing stronger daily. "She appeared to be in her forties, with kind eyes and long dark hair. She told me she was the mother of a girl I had helped before my accident."
"What did she tell you about this girl?"
"Specific things. That her daughter had been living with relatives who didn't want her, that the girl's hair had been severely neglected as a form of emotional abuse. She described a particular park where the encounter happened, mentioned that her daughter had beautiful eyes but looked broken, like she didn't believe she deserved kindness."
The interviewer exchanged glances with her cameraman, sensing something beyond a typical recovery story.
"Did she tell you anything else?"
"She said she regretted staying away from her family, that she had gotten involved in some darker aspects of certain industries and didn't want to endanger her little sister, which was why she had remained distant. She asked me to find her daughter and her sister, to ask for their forgiveness." Javier's voice grew more intense. "But she gave me specific details that only her daughter would know—things like how her daughter used to hide a small scar on her left hand from a childhood accident, how she had a habit of humming a particular lullaby when nervous, how she kept a pressed flower from her mother's funeral in a specific book. She described the exact words her daughter said the night before she went to live with her aunt, details about a favorite hair ribbon that was lost during the move. She said these details would prove to her daughter that the message was real, that it really came from her mother."
"And what do you plan to do with this information?"
"I need to find this girl and share these details with her. If she recognizes them as true, then I'll know the experience wasn't just a hallucination. And if it was real, then I have a responsibility to complete the mission this woman entrusted me with—to tell her daughter how much she was loved, how deeply her mother regretted the choices that kept them apart."
"And the doctors believe this was a hallucination?"
"They say it's a common phenomenon in near-death experiences. But I remember every detail of our conversations. She kept me from going over what felt like an edge, kept me company on this bright, grassy slope. She said I was having a near-death experience but that I would wake up soon, that I had important things to do."
"What kind of important things?"
"Finding her daughter. Confirming whether what I experienced was real or my mind's creation. But either way, making sure this girl knows that someone who claimed to be her mother spent what felt like months telling me how proud she was of who her daughter had become."
After the interview aired, Isabella visited with a mixture of concern and curiosity about her brother's claims.
"Javier, you need to focus on your recovery, not on what were probably hallucinations brought on by brain trauma."
"Isabella, I need to find this girl. If I tell her what the woman said and she recognizes it, then I'll know it was real. And if it was real, then I have to do what she asked me to do."
"And if she doesn't recognize the details?"
"Then I'll accept that it was a hallucination and focus on my recovery. But Isabella, I have to try. The woman who spoke to me—real or not—entrusted me with a message of love and regret. I can't ignore that responsibility."
"The doctors say you're making excellent progress, but you're months away from being able to travel or handle complex emotional situations."
"Then I'll recover faster. I'll work harder in therapy, push myself in rehabilitation. Because I have something important to accomplish—either confirming that I experienced something extraordinary, or fulfilling a dying mother's final wish to reconcile with her daughter."
As Isabella left that evening, Javier stared out his hospital window at the Valencia skyline, thinking about the woman who had been his companion during the long journey back to consciousness. Whether she had been real or hallucination, the information she had shared felt like a test he was meant to complete.
The girl who had searched for him, who had traveled across the world to thank him for a moment of kindness—she held the key to understanding whether his experience had been real or merely his unconscious mind's creation. But more importantly, she deserved to know what her supposed mother had wanted to tell her.
Recovery would take time, but Javier had something to recover for now—a purpose that would either confirm he had been entrusted with an extraordinary mission, or help him accept the boundaries between reality and the mind's powerful ability to create meaning from trauma.
Either way, finding the girl with the beautiful eyes would provide the answers he needed to move forward with his life.