When I opened my eyes, the world was white again —
but this time, I could feel it.
Light brushed across my skin like a whisper.
The faint scent of rain came through the open window.
I couldn't hear it, but I saw the curtains move — soft, slow, alive.
I was in my old room.
The bed was the same.
The air still carried the ghost of antiseptic and sorrow.
But the weight in my chest was gone.
For the first time in years, I wasn't afraid of breathing.
I turned my head.
My husband was sleeping in the chair by the window, his face buried in his hands.
The lines around his eyes had deepened; the guilt had aged him.
Beside the bed, a vase of lilies stood half-wilted.
The same flowers she once brought me.
I stared at them until the edges blurred.
I could still feel her — faint, distant, like sunlight pressed into my skin.
Her warmth was gone, but her presence lingered,
a gentle reminder that I had been chosen to live.
Not because I deserved it,
but because I still could.
When the doctor came in, I watched his mouth move.
He asked questions I couldn't hear:
How are you feeling?
Any pain?
Do you remember what happened?
I smiled faintly and nodded once.
That was enough.
For now, it was enough.
Days passed like gentle tides.
No one spoke about what happened anymore — not the police, not the neighbors, not even him.
The world had quietly rewritten the story, smoothing over the cracks, painting over the blood.
But sometimes, at night, when the house fell asleep, I would touch the scars on my wrists.
They didn't hurt anymore.
They only reminded me that I had lived through something that should have ended me.
And somehow, I hadn't.
The door opened one afternoon.
My son stood there — taller now, thinner.
He hesitated before stepping inside, holding a small wooden box to his chest.
He didn't say anything.
He just stood there, watching me.
I smiled, small and slow.
For a moment, he froze.
Then his lips trembled.
He put the box down on the table and sat beside me.
His eyes searched my face like he was afraid I might disappear again.
I reached out, slowly, my hand shaking —
and for the first time since everything fell apart,
he didn't pull away.
Our fingers touched.
His hand was warm, trembling.
He started to cry — quiet, desperate tears that fell onto my arm.
I couldn't hear them,
but I could feel them.
And that was enough.
We stayed like that for a long time —
mother and son, two wounded hearts remembering each other in silence.
When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, barely a whisper,
but his lips were easy to read:
I'm sorry.
I smiled.
My throat burned.
I mouthed the words back: Me too.
That night, after he fell asleep beside me, I looked out the window.
The moon hung low, pale and familiar.
Somewhere in another world, maybe another body,
a baby girl laughed in her sleep.
And in that quiet moment,
I felt both lives breathing through me —
the grief that had broken me,
and the love that had saved me.
I closed my eyes.
The wind brushed across my face, carrying a whisper only I could feel:
You chose right.
I smiled through the tears.
For the first time, they didn't hurt.