Three days passed before she woke.
The hospital room was quiet in the careful way of places meant to keep people alive, light softened by curtains, warmth settled deep into her skin. Iyisha surfaced slowly, awareness coming back in fragments, the weight of blankets, the dull ache threaded through her limbs, the steady rhythm of machines breathing beside her.
She opened her eyes with effort.
Ester stood near the window, placing a single flower into the small vase, adjusting the stem with gentle fingers. Mary was at the foot of the bed, chart in hand, checking the IV and making notes, her movements calm and practiced.
They were talking softly when Iyisha made a sound.
Barely more than a breath.
Mary looked up first, her expression shifting instantly, relief breaking through. Ester turned so quickly the vase rattled.
"Oh," Ester breathed. "You're awake."
Iyisha blinked, her throat dry, her body heavy and slow. "Hi," she whispered.
That was enough.
