Zane woke into a quiet that felt provisional rather than peaceful.
The absence of sound did not reassure him at first. It unsettled him, registering as something unfinished rather than resolved, as though the room itself were holding its breath to see whether he would manage to keep going without being corrected. He lay still, eyes open, allowing awareness to settle cautiously, resisting the instinct to test his body too quickly, unwilling to provoke consequences he did not yet understand.
The light in the room was wrong for crisis.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains at an angle that suggested morning rather than emergency, its warmth diffused and patient, touching the floor instead of interrogating the bed. It took him several seconds to recognize that the machines were gone, not merely quieted, and longer still to accept that the rhythm in his chest belonged entirely to him again.
His throat burned when he swallowed.
