Chapter 35

I'm floating. It's an odd sensation, like being suspended in a dream. I can see my own body lying on the operating table, still and lifeless. Doctors and nurses are huddled around, their voices muffled, their faces obscured by masks. They're working with a sense of urgency, but I can't make out their words.

I want to reach out, to tell them that I'm right here, watching everything they're doing. But my voice doesn't work, and my limbs won't respond. It's as though I'm a mere spectator to my own existence.

I look down at my body, and it's a strange sight. Tubes and wires are attached to me, and the monitors beep rhythmically, a reminder that there's still life within me, even if I'm floating above it all.

The room seems to shimmer with an otherworldly light, and I see an aura of energy surrounding the medical team. They're focused, determined, and skilled. I wonder if they know that I'm here, that my consciousness is observing every detail.

As they continue their work, I'm overwhelmed with a sense of detachment from my physical self. It's as though I've stepped into a different dimension, one where time and space don't quite behave the way they should. I'm neither here nor there, but somewhere in between.

I watch as they make incisions, work to mend what's broken inside me. Worry is in their eyes, the furrowed brows, the occasional glance exchanged between them.

A surge of emotion washes over me. Fear, hope, uncertainty—they all swirl together, creating a turbulent sea of feelings. I want to tell them that I'm rooting for them, that I trust them with my life. But my words remain trapped.

Time passes, though it's impossible to say how long. The room begins to blur, and I feel myself being drawn back toward my body. The sensation is disorienting, like being pulled by an invisible force. I want to resist, to stay here in this ethereal realm where I can witness everything without being bound by the limitations of the physical world.

But the pull is too strong, and I find myself descending, back into my body. As I re-enter, I feel the weight of it all—the pain, the vulnerability, the fragility of life.

Another chance.

I have another chance.