Katherine Harrington The first sensation wasn’t pain. It was weight. Crushing, liquid weight, as if my bones had been replaced with wet concrete left to set. My eyelids were sealed—glued by crust and time. When they finally cracked open, white light knifed straight through my skull. I flinched, a pathetic twitch. A sound scraped out of my throat: dry, ragged, not mine. Where…? The question floated, thin as smoke, unanswered. No memories rose to meet it. No faces, no names, no yesterday. Just a vast, echoing hollow where my life should have been. I tried to lift my hand. It trembled an inch off the sheet before collapsing, heavy and useless. Something tugged at the back of it—a thin tube, clear fluid dripping in slow, mechanical rhythm. An IV. Hospital. The word existed, detached, like something read in a book once. But why? How? A steady beep pulsed beside me. Heart monitor. Calm now. Too calm. Some buried instinct whispered it hadn’t always been this way—that the l
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