The first thing I notice is the smell.
Not the clean, antiseptic scent of a hospital. Not the smell of soap or disinfectant. Something darker lingers, like smoke that never fully left.
I open my eyes slowly. The ceiling is a dull white, tiled in neat squares with a flickering light above. A soft beeping hums beside me, and it takes a moment to realize it is coming from me. My heart.
"You're awake."
A woman in blue scrubs leans over, clipboard in hand, her smile practiced. "Welcome back. You gave us quite a scare."
I try to speak. Nothing comes out. She notices immediately and hands me a cup with a straw. The water tastes metallic, sharp.
"You were brought in after a house fire," she says. "Smoke inhalation, some burns on your arm, but you're stable now. Very lucky."
Lucky.
I nod. The word feels heavy, wrong.
Moments later, my family arrives. My mother's eyes are red, my sister presses a hand to her mouth, and someone holds my hand. They all say the same thing, over and over:
"We thought we lost you."
"You survived."
"You're so strong."
The story they tell is neat. The fire started late. I was asleep. A neighbor called it in. Firefighters arrived just in time.
I close my eyes, trying to follow their story. But beneath it, something presses at my mind.
I remember darkness.
I remember heat.
I remember the ceiling above collapsing in my vision, the smoke thick and burning.
And I remember someone standing in the doorway.
Not panicking. Not helping. Just standing. Watching. Saying my name softly, like a question.
Then stepping back.
My eyes snap open. The room is quiet again, except for the beeping of the machines. My mother is still holding my hand, my sister still crying. I am alive.
I try to tell myself it's just trauma, that fear can invent memories. But my chest tightens as another image surfaces—sharper this time.
Someone watched me die.
A nurse rushes in at the sound of my quickened breathing, asking if I'm in pain. I shake my head. The pain isn't the problem.
The problem is this: everyone keeps telling me I survived. But I remember the moment my lungs gave out. The moment everything went dark.
And I remember the person who let it happen.