Light bursts through my closed eyelids, forcing me to open my eyes, yet I can hardly focus on the world around me. The brightness makes everything seem distant and blurred, as though I’m submerged in fog.

“She’s awake!” A voice cuts through the haze. A woman in a blue outfit is talking, calling out to someone else. Their voices fade in and out of comprehension, like muffled whispers.

I try to sit up but something isn’t right. My body feels foreign. My throat is dry, aching from the lack of use, and all I can manage is a weak croak. “Where am I? And where are my children?”

No one answers. They move around me, busy with other patients—others like me? Wounds, bandages, confusion. My mind swirls with ungraspable thoughts, trying to piece together the fragments of what’s happening, but everything slips away as quickly as it comes.

I reach out instinctively, hoping to grasp onto something, anything. But my arms—they don’t respond. They’re heavy, stiff, like they belong to someone else. Panic rises in my chest.

A man in a white coat steps up, his presence cutting through the fog in my mind. He shines a light in my eyes, his voice even, detached. “Miss, can you tell me your name?”

I try to focus on him, but it feels like I’m looking through water. “It’s… Virginia… Guilin… where are my children?”

He makes a note, clicking a pen. Once, twice. He asks another question, but the words don’t stick. “What do you do for a living?”

I struggle to gather my thoughts, like trying to hold onto sand slipping through my fingers. “I… teach poetry. Yes, I’m a teacher.” It feels right, but why do I feel so uncertain?

“Good. Do you know where you are?” He adjusts his glasses, eyes scanning my face, looking for something.

“Is this… a hospital?” I glance around, hoping for some clarity, but nothing about the sterile white walls brings familiarity.

“Yes,” he responds, flipping through the pages on his clipboard.

“Why… am I here?”

“You had a seizure earlier this morning,” he says, his tone mechanical, as if this is all routine. “You’ve been unresponsive for almost three hours.”

My mind spins. A seizure? That’s… that’s why I’m here? But why can’t I remember? Why do I feel so empty?

The door swings open, and a man walks in—a figure from my life, yet unfamiliar. He wears a black jacket and a hat. My husband? His face is blurry, his voice muffled as he gently takes my hand. His tears fall, his words tangled in emotion I can’t quite catch.

“Don’t worry about the kids,” he says, his voice cracking. “They’re with your parents. It’s okay.”

But I can’t shake the unease. Something isn’t right. Where are my children? Why is everything so distant?

He talks to the doctor, discussing surgery, baseball games, memories—none of it makes sense. His hand leaves mine, and I watch as he steps out of the room with the doctor. The door clicks shut behind them, and I’m alone again, the quiet too loud in my head.

I turn back to the window, and there they are again—blue. So much blue. A sea of blue moving against the sterile whiteness of the walls. The noise of it all, the bustle, the chaos—it makes me feel small.

My throat is sore. My arms feel useless, like they don’t belong. I open my mouth to speak, but it’s barely a whisper.

“Where am I? And where are my children?”