The hospital is quiet, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The air smells faintly of disinfectant and something old, metallic. Pukasi moves cautiously down the corridor, his footsteps echoing against the linoleum floor. Then, at the end of the hall, he sees her—standing near a broken wheelchair, her face illuminated by the harsh overhead light.

Pukasi: Susie?

She slowly turns, her eyes meeting his. There's a strange familiarity in her gaze, yet she stands solidly in the present, alive and breathing. His chest tightens.

Pukasi: No... you're not.

She tilts her head slightly, a small, almost teasing smile brushing her lips, the hospital lights casting sharp shadows across her face.

Do I look like your girlfriend?

Pukasi: Yes... my late girlfriend.

He takes a tentative step forward, staring at her as if he could convince himself this was real. His voice trembles with disbelief and longing.

Pukasi: I can't believe it... You could be her twin. Your face. Your voice... just your hair and clothes are different.

She moves closer, the floor creaking softly under her feet. She lifts a hand slowly, brushing it against his. Her touch is warm, real, grounding him for a moment in the sterile, haunted space.

My name... is not Susie. I don't look like a ghost, do I?

Her hand lingers against his, a tangible proof of her presence.

See? Feel how warm I am?

Pukasi recoils slightly, stepping back, his mind a whirlwind of grief, confusion, and fear.

Pukasi: You're really not Susie?

Her expression softens but remains firm, as if setting a boundary he cannot cross.

I told you... I'm not her.

The lights flicker again, casting long, wavering shadows across the walls. The hospital is silent except for their breaths and the distant, haunting hum of unknown machines. She is real. Warm. Alive—but she is not Susie. And the gap between memory and reality stretches painfully between them.