Five days passed. That's all it took for the autopsy to feel like it had happened months ago instead of less than a week. Not forgotten but it had been pushed back, filed away in some mental archive where it wouldn't interfere with daily function.

  Medical school had a way of doing that. Grinding through you so fast, throwing so much at you so constantly, that yesterday's trauma became last week's distant memory became last month's vague recollection.

  Thursday afternoon, final day of Orthopedics rotation. Dr. Pierce had us doing discharge summaries; the paperwork side of medicine that nobody talked about in recruitment brochures. Patient after patient, documenting surgical procedures, post-op courses, medication lists, follow-up appointments. Boring. Exactly what I needed.

  Around three o'clock, Dr. Pierce appeared, leaning against the cluttered desk and signaled for me to follow him to his office, a cramped space dominated by a skeleton model that was still missing its left arm.

  ?"Final evaluation, Ashrahan," Pierce said, dropping into his chair and pulling out a standardized form. He looked me over for a second, his sharp eyes lingering on the dark circles under mine. "Two weeks on my ward. How do you think you did?"

  I told him I thought I’d done adequately. He actually let out a short, dry laugh at that. "Adequately. That’s more honest than most. Most students give me a speech about how they’ve discovered their 'passion' for bones just to get a better grade. You showed up, you followed instructions, and you didn't contaminate my surgical fields. Your practical skills are still those of a clumsy third-year, but you have a knack for noticing things others ignore." He signed the form with a flourish. "You pass. Your next rotation is Surgery. They’ll work you twice as hard and scream at you three times as much. Try to stay conscious."

  "Thank you?"

  "That wasn't a compliment."

  I took the form and left. In the hallway, Murin and Akki were waiting. Both had just finished their own evaluations.

  "Pass?" Murin asked.

  "Pass."

  "Same."

  Akki held up his form. "Mine said I have 'unrealized potential that remains stubbornly unrealized.' I think that's his way of saying I'm lazy."

  "You are lazy," Murin said.

  "I prefer 'energy efficient.'"

  We walked out of the Ortho ward together. The afternoon sun was bright, warm, normal. Students everywhere, moving between buildings, complaining about exams and assignments and the cafeteria food. Regular university life.

  "You going home this weekend?" Murin asked.

  "Yeah. My mom's been asking."

  "Same. My parents want to 'check on me.'" He made air quotes. "Make sure medical school hasn't destroyed my soul yet."

  "Has it?" Akki asked.

  "Obviously. But I'll pretend otherwise for their sake."

  We reached the main gate. Murin headed toward the bus stop. Akki went toward the hostel. I stood there for a moment, then checked my phone. Messages from my mother.

  What time are you coming home?

  I'm making your favorite food

  Your grandmother is here! She came from the village to see you. She's very excited.

  I stared at that last message. My grandmother had arrived from the village. I hadn't seen her in almost a year. She lived three hours away, in a small village where my father's family had lived for generations. She rarely came to the city because she hated the noise, the crowds, the pollution. If she was here, something was either very wrong or very important.

  I texted back: Coming home tonight. Will be there by 8.

  The response came immediately: Good! She's waiting. Don't be late.

  I packed a small bag at the hostel with my textbook because I'd probably need to study at some point. The System flickered as I was shoving things into my backpack.

  I stopped packing and stared at the notification. Level 5. Finally. And more importantly, I could turn this thing off now. Temporarily, but still. Four hours of not having every observation analyzed, four hours of being just a normal person instead of a walking medical database.

  "About fucking time," I muttered.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said, slinging the bag over my shoulder. “I’ll be responsible.”

  The bus ride home took ninety minutes. I sat near the back, watching the city give way to suburbs give way to the quieter neighborhood where I'd grown up.

  Got off at my stop around 7:45 PM. Walked the last few blocks, past houses I'd known my entire life. The old man who always sat on his porch, still sitting there. The corner store that sold terrible snacks, still selling them. The stray dog that had lived on this street for five years, still lying in the same spot. Medical school could throw trauma and exhaustion and dead bodies at me, but this street stayed exactly the same.

  Our house was at the end of the block. The lights were on in every window. I opened the front door. "I'm home!"

  Immediately, chaos. My mother appeared from the kitchen, already talking. "Finally! You're late! I said eight, it's almost eight! Your grandmother has been asking every five minutes when you're coming!"

  "It's 7:52, Mom."

  "That's basically eight! Come, come, she's in the living room."

  I barely had time to drop my bag before being dragged into the living room. My grandmother was sitting on the sofa, smaller than I remembered. She'd gotten thinner, more fragile-looking.

  "Ashru!" She stood up, faster than someone her age should be able to move, and grabbed my face with both hands. "Look at you! So thin! Are they not feeding you at that school?"

  “They feed me,” I said, trying not to laugh, because she looked genuinely offended on my behalf.

  “Feed you?” She made a sound of disbelief. “This is feeding? You look like a skeleton. Are they teaching you to heal people or are they teaching you to join the ones in the ground?” She pulled me into a hug that was surprisingly strong, her arms tight around me for a long moment. “Sit. Sit. Tell me everything. Are you learning? Are the teachers good? Are you being careful?”

  I sat. My mother brought tea without being asked. My grandmother settled back into the sofa, still holding one of my hands like I might disappear if she let go. She asked about school, but she wasn't interested in my grades. She wanted to know if the teachers were "good people" and if I was being careful with my heart. She squeezed my hand. "Your mother tells me you saved a woman's life. Found some problem with her spleen before the doctors did."

  "I just noticed something was wrong. The doctors did the actual saving."

  "Don't be modest. My mother used to say the best healers are the ones who see what others miss."

  I smiled. My great-grandmother had been a village healer, the kind who used herbs and old knowledge and intuition that couldn't be taught in medical school.

  "Your mother also tells me you went on some mountain trip," Grandma continued. "Did you enjoy it?"

  I hesitated. "It was... educational."

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. Then nodded slowly, like that answered some question she hadn't asked out loud. "You look tired."

  I didn't know what to say to that. My mother intervened. "He's been working very hard. All the students work very hard. That's why I told him to come home, rest properly, eat proper food."

  "Good," Grandma said firmly. "You can't take care of others if you don't take care of yourself first." She finally released my hand and settled back. "Now. Tell me, What kind of doctor will you be?"

  And just like that, the conversation shifted to normal things. I told her about rotations and carefully edited versions that left out autopsies. She listened carefully, asking questions that showed she understood more than I expected.

  My father came home around nine. He stopped in the doorway when he saw his mother and stared like he’d seen a ghost.

  “Mom?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  She waved him off like he was being dramatic. “Your son is home. I came to see him. Is that a crime?”

  My father looked at my mother. My mother shrugged helplessly, as if to say, She just appeared.

  We had dinner together. My mother had made everything I liked, plus several things my grandmother had requested. The table was crowded with dishes, warm and familiar and exactly what I needed after weeks of cafeteria food and emotional exhaustion.

  After dinner, my grandmother pulled me aside. "Walk with me. I want to see your mother's garden."

  We went outside. The garden wasn't much; some flowers, a few herbs my mother grew for cooking, a small vegetable patch. But my grandmother walked through it slowly, seeing everything like it was fascinating.

  She stopped next to the herb patch, touched some leaves gently. "When I was young, maybe fifteen, there was a drought. People were dying, children mostly. Malnutrition, disease. My mother, your great-grandmother, worked day and night trying to help. Herbs, rituals, everything she knew."

  She paused. "One day I found her crying. Only time I ever saw her cry. I asked why. She said 'Because I can't save them all, and I have to live with that.'" She looked at me directly. "That's what your eyes look like now."

  I felt something tight in my chest.

  "Am I wrong?" she asked gently.

  I shook my head. “No.”

  She nodded once, satisfied. “Good. It’s important you learn it early. Better to learn it now than later, when it breaks you.”

  We stood there in the garden, evening insects chirping, distant traffic sounds, the smell of my mother's herbs mixing with the cool night air.

  Then she turned toward the house, and just like that she was my grandmother again instead of some ancient wise woman delivering life lessons. “Come. Your mother made dessert. We should eat it before your father finishes it all.”

  I followed her inside, feeling lighter somehow. Like someone had finally said out loud the thing I'd been carrying silently.

  That night, I slept in my old room. My old bed, my old pillow, posters on the walls from when I was seventeen and thought I knew what I wanted.

  The girl in the pink jacket appeared in my dreams. But this time she wasn't hanging. Just standing there, looking at me. I woke up once around 3 AM, heart pounding. Lay there in the dark, remembering.Then went back to sleep.

  In the morning, my grandmother made breakfast. My mother fussed about whether I'd slept well. My father read the newspaper and complained about traffic and politics. And I just sat there, enjoying a brief piece of normal life, knowing it wouldn’t last.