The hospital room smelled of disinfectant and fading flowers, and the air felt heavy with something that lingered between pain and silence. My abdomen felt like a strip of fire had been sewn beneath my skin, burning and pulling with every breath I tried to take.
The nurse had warned me carefully not to twist, not to laugh, and not even to sit up too quickly because my body needed time to heal properly. My bandages were still clean and tight, and they were not supposed to come off until the following day without exception.
And yet there he was standing at the foot of my bed, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked more appropriate for a corporate meeting than a hospital visit. His name was Connor Whitfield, and he looked healthier than I had seen him in months, with color returned to his cheeks and a calm confidence in his posture.
The transplant team had called his recovery excellent and even used the word remarkable when speaking about his progress. I had called it something else entirely, something that felt deeper and heavier, something I had once believed was a miracle.
Connor did not take my hand or sit beside me, and he did not ask how I was feeling after everything I had gone through. Instead, he reached into his briefcase and tossed a manila envelope onto the blanket covering my legs with a casual motion.
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