The light in the hospital room flickered—once, twice—then went out entirely.

Mara blinked, disoriented, her head spinning in the sudden darkness. She could still feel the cold sheets beneath her, hear the soft hum of the machines around her. But everything else was a void. No light, no sound, no shape. She blinked again, trying to make sense of it, but her eyes betrayed her, no longer cooperating. The world had become an indistinct blur, colors bleeding into one another like a stained canvas.

A rush of panic surged through her chest. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Her lips parted, the muscles of her throat quivering, but there was nothing—only silence. She tried again, harder this time. Her pulse quickened. The air around her felt thick, suffocating, as if the room itself was holding its breath.

She wasn’t sure how long she had been in this state—minutes? Hours? It felt like an eternity.

The silence was the worst part.

Footsteps. A presence at the door. Mara strained, her heart hammering, waiting for the sound to reach her again. The familiar, deliberate pace of someone walking toward her. It was the nurse—she knew that much. But she couldn’t be sure. Her world had shrunk, fractured, and now, the boundary between reality and nightmare blurred at the edges.

“Patient 401,” a voice called out, smooth and calm. Too calm.

Mara tried to twist her head toward the sound, but the room spun with it. Everything felt foreign, ungrounded. She reached her hands out into the space, fingers brushing against the cool metal frame of her bed. A shiver ran through her, as if the air itself had become electric.

The nurse spoke again. Her voice was closer now. “You’re not alone.”

Mara’s breath caught in her throat, but she couldn’t voice her fear. She couldn’t even articulate the question that burned in her mind: Why couldn’t she see or speak?

The footsteps retreated, only to return moments later, this time with a new sound—a low mechanical hum, followed by a soft metallic scraping. She couldn’t place it.

Her hand moved instinctively toward her face, her fingers tracing the empty space where her eyes should have been, where her mouth should have spoken. She could feel the pulse under her skin—faint, fragile, yet still there.

And then, as suddenly as it had come, the darkness lifted. The light blinked back on, harsh and unyielding. Mara blinked, adjusting, squinting against the glare.

Before her, a figure stood—her nurse, but something was wrong. Her face was pale, expressionless, like a mannequin. In her hand was a clipboard, and on it, a list of names—each one crossed off, except for hers.

Mara’s body trembled, the room growing colder as the nurse’s smile curled just slightly at the corners. A quiet, empty smile.

“Don’t worry,” the nurse said softly, “You’ll speak again soon.”

But Mara couldn’t move, couldn’t answer. Her eyes fluttered closed, and just before she lost consciousness, the last thing she heard was the eerie click of a door slowly closing behind her.