The sterile scent of antiseptic still lingered in the hospital air, but for Mike Richard, it was the smell of clarity. Of rebirth.

Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, painting the white walls with a faint gold hue. The beeping machines beside his bed hummed steadily, each rhythm a reminder that he had come back. That life, despite everything, still pulsed through his veins.

Cynthia sat in the armchair beside him, her head resting gently against the bed’s edge, fingers laced with his. She had fallen asleep like that, refusing to leave his side even after the doctors told her he needed rest. He hadn’t said much since waking up—his...