The hospital room was a blinding white, stark against the dark void of my memory. My head throbbed, a dull ache that echoed the emptiness inside. Wires snaked from my arm, connecting me to a machine that hummed softly beside the bed. I tried to recall anything, a name, a face, a place, but my mind was a blank slate.

A nurse, her uniform a cheerful pink, bustled in, then froze, her eyes widening as she saw me awake. A wide smile, almost too wide, stretched across her face. "How are you feeling, ma'am?" she asked, her voice a little too bright. My own voice, when it came, was a raspy whisper. "Good... Why am I here?"

Her answer was evasive, a hurried promise to call the doctors. Soon, a small army of them descended, prodding and questioning. "What do you remember last?" the oldest one asked. I tried, I truly did, but only darkness answered. "I... I don't remember," I whispered, tears pricking my eyes. They left, talking about 'stress' and 'rest,' but I caught a snippet: "Did you inform him?""Yes, he's coming." Who was coming? A chill, unrelated to the antiseptic smell, crawled up my spine.