I became aware of my breathing.

  Not because it was difficult.

  Because it was automatic.

  My chest rose.

  Fell.

  Perfect rhythm. No hesitation. No adjustment.

  Like it had always belonged to me.

  Like it didn’t need me to exist.

  I swallowed slowly.

  The air tasted clean. Empty. Artificial.

  The figure hadn’t moved.

  It was still watching me.

  Not impatient.

  Not curious.

  Certain.

  Like it already knew every decision I would make.

  I didn’t like that.

  I pushed my hand against the surface beneath me and stood.

  Too fast.

  My balance shifted violently, and the room tilted sideways. My vision blurred, and for a moment I thought I would collapse.

  But my legs adjusted.

  Corrected.

  Stabilized.

  Before I could think how.

  My breathing quickened.

  That wasn’t normal.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  I hadn’t told my body how to recover.

  It had done it on its own.

  I stayed still, afraid that moving again would prove something worse.

  “Why?” I asked.

  My voice sounded small.

  Wrong.

  The figure didn’t answer immediately.

  Its gaze lowered slightly.

  To my hands.

  Then back to my face.

  “You are stabilizing,” she said.

  Stabilizing.

  The word wrapped around my spine and tightened.

  “I didn’t ask to be here,” I said.

  Silence.

  Then—

  “You did.”

  My chest tightened.

  “No,” I said immediately.

  Too quickly.

  Too certain.

  Because I needed it to be false.

  The figure tilted her head slightly.

  Not arguing.

  Observing.

  Like my denial was part of something expected.

  My fingers curled.

  Uncurled.

  I watched them move.

  The motion felt delayed.

  Not slow.

  Just…

  Not entirely mine.

  Like I was watching the decision arrive instead of making it.

  A cold sensation crept into my stomach.

  I stopped moving.

  The delay stopped too.

  I didn’t know which part scared me more.

  I tried to remember.

  My room.

  My phone.

  The ceiling above my bed.

  I could see it clearly.

  Too clearly.

  Every detail was sharp. Complete.

  Perfect.

  Not faded like memory.

  Not fragile.

  Installed.

  The realization hit so quietly I almost missed it.

  Memories weren’t supposed to feel finished.

  They were supposed to feel distant.

  Mine didn’t.

  Mine felt current.

  Active.

  Alive.

  Like they hadn’t ended.

  Like they were still being used.

  A pressure formed behind my eyes.

  I pressed my fingers into my palm.

  Hard.

  Pain bloomed instantly.

  Sharp.

  Real.

  My body reacted correctly.

  Too correctly.

  Like it had already learned how to respond.

  I hadn’t taught it.

  I hadn’t relearned anything.

  I already knew how to exist here.

  The thought came suddenly.

  Clear.

  Uninvited.

  You belong here.

  My breathing stopped.

  I hadn’t chosen those words.

  I hadn’t decided to think them.

  They had simply appeared.

  Complete.

  Certain.

  I felt my heart begin to pound.

  “No,” I whispered.

  I didn’t know who I was arguing with.

  Myself.

  Or something deeper.

  The figure stepped closer.

  Not enough to touch.

  Close enough that I could feel its presence.

  The air around it felt heavier.

  Denser.

  “What is this place?” I asked.

  She tilted her head slightly.

  “This is where you stabilized.”

  The answer settled into me like something irreversible.

  My throat tightened.

  “I want to go home.”

  For the first time—

  She paused.

  Not long.

  But long enough.

  Her eyes remained on mine.

  Unblinking.

  “You are home,” she said.

  Something inside me rejected that instantly.

  Violently.

  This wasn’t my room.

  This wasn’t my body.

  This wasn’t my life.

  My hand lifted suddenly.

  I hadn’t told it to move.

  My fingers rose into my line of sight.

  Small.

  Steady.

  Obedient.

  I stared at them.

  Terrified to realize—

  They weren’t waiting for permission anymore.

  They were waiting for instruction.

  And I wasn’t sure the instruction had to come from me.