I didn't think I was going to die.
Not in a dramatic sense. I wasn't coughing blood or collapsing in hallways. I just felt… off. The kind of off you ignore because you're busy and tired and convinced it'll pass.
It didn't pass.
I was in the lab when the dizziness started. We'd been analyzing pollen samples from a newly cataloged Amazonian flower. Harmless on paper. Interesting cellular structure. Nothing extraordinary.
By evening, my hands were shaking so badly I couldn't hold a pipette steady.
I told myself it was exhaustion.
By midnight, I couldn't stand without bracing against the wall.
The hospital visit was supposed to be precautionary. A few tests. Fluids. Maybe an overnight stay.
Instead, it turned into alarms. Whispered conversations outside the curtain. Doctors who stopped making eye contact.
They never gave me a clear answer. "Systemic reaction." "Aggressive response." "We're trying."
I remember lying there, staring at the ceiling tiles, counting the tiny holes in them because it was easier than thinking about what the silence meant.
You always imagine death as loud.
Mine was quiet.
Machines. Footsteps. A nurse adjusting something near my arm.
I knew before anyone said it out loud.
There's a moment when your body understands something your mind hasn't accepted yet. My breathing felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. My heartbeat didn't feel reliable anymore.
And then it stopped.
There wasn't pain.
Just absence.
No light. No darkness either. Just the complete lack of sensation. If I had to describe it, it felt like being switched off.
I don't know how long that lasted.
When awareness returned, it wasn't dramatic. I didn't gasp or wake up suddenly. I just… knew I existed.
There was no direction. No temperature. No distance. I couldn't even tell if I was still or drifting.
But something about it felt occupied.
Not crowded. Not hostile.
Just… not empty.
You know that feeling when you walk into a room and the conversation stops? No one says anything, but you know you've interrupted something.
It felt like that.
Except there was no room. And no voices.
The longer I stayed aware, the stronger the impression became.
Whatever this place was
it had saw me.
Time didn't exist there. I wasn't hungry. I wasn't tired. Nothing changed. The only thing that moved was my own thoughts.
And even those felt louder than they should have.
I don't know how long that lasted. Time didn't make sense. There was no hunger, no fatigue, no physical markers to measure it by.
Then, without warning, everything shifted.
Pressure built around me — not crushing, but decisive. Like a hand closing.
And suddenly I was falling.
This time I could feel it. Motion. Speed. A pull downward, even though there was no ground in sight.
Then air hit my lungs like a shock.
I choked.
Coughed.
Pain exploded through my chest — sharp, real, undeniable.
Voices overlapped.
"He's breathing."
"Careful."
"Slow down."
Hands lifted me. Warm hands. Solid. Human.
I forced my eyes open.
The ceiling above me was cracked plaster, not hospital white. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and something older wood, maybe.
My body felt small.
Weak.
Young.
I tried to speak, but the words didn't come out right. My voice sounded wrong — higher, thinner.
Panic rose fast and ugly in my throat.
I looked at my hands.
They weren't mine.
Smaller. Smooth. Unscarred.
Someone leaned over me , a woman with tired eyes but a gentle expression.
"You're safe," she said softly.
Safe.
I didn't know where I was.
I didn't know how long I'd been gone.
But I knew something with absolute certainty.
I had died.
And whatever this was
It wasn't a second chance given kindly.
It felt deliberate.
Like someone had pressed restart.