Truly Madly Ghostly

Chapter Thirty-five: Erased

Darkness clung to him, thick and endless, a weight he wasn't sure he could push through. It had been his reality for what felt like an eternity—drifting, untethered, caught between something and nothing. But then, something changed. A flicker of sensation. A sound. 

A voice.

It pulled at the strings of his existence.

His body felt heavy, unfamiliar, like it didn't belong to him. He tried to move, but the effort sent exhaustion crashing over him. He focused instead on the sounds—soft beeping, the distant murmur of voices, the rhythmic whoosh of air. 

A hospital. 

The realization came slowly, filtering through the fog clouding his mind.

Another sound—closer, urgent. His name. It cut through the haze, stirring something deep within him. His fingers twitched against the sheets, a tremor barely noticeable, but it was enough. The pressure of a hand on his own, warm and real, made the darkness recede further.

He forced his eyelids open.

But the blinding light had his vision swam, the ceiling above him blurring into white nothingness. His throat burned, his lips dry and cracked as he tried to swallow. The sensation of his own body overwhelmed him—his chest rising and falling in labored breaths, the stiffness of limbs that had been still for too long, the dull ache threaded through his muscles.

Someone gasped. The hand on his tightened. 

He turned his head, sluggish and uncoordinated, his gaze landing on a face he haven't ever seen before. The details of this face although felt quite surreal—the shape of the eyes, the nose, those puffy cheeks, the tremble of lips parted in disbelief.

He tried to speak. Nothing came out but a rasp, weak and broken. His throat rebelled at the effort, sending a sharp stab of pain through him. He swallowed again, forcing the word past his lips, "...Who?"

The face blurred as moisture filled his eyes. Blinking didn't help; it only sent another wave of exhaustion rolling over him. He let his head sink back into the pillow, focusing on the warmth of the hand still gripping his, the steady presence tethering him to this moment.

He wasn't drifting anymore.

He was here. Alive.

But as the haze lifted, something lingered at the edges of his thoughts—a whisper of something else, something more than just unconsciousness. Something he wasn't sure he was ready to face.

And he surrendered to the great slumber again. 

From then on, he couldn't count how many times this went on--him drifting back to the land of consciousness and back to the depth of sleep. The pressure of that soft grip on his hand remained the only constant thing.

--

Alex woke to a blinding white light and the sterile scent of antiseptic. 

His body felt heavy, his limbs dull with an exhaustion that settled deep into his bones. The beeping of a heart monitor pulsed in the background, rhythmic and steady, anchoring him to consciousness. His throat was dry, lips cracked. A faint rustling to his left drew his sluggish attention.

Someone was still gripping his hand.

His vision adjusted, focusing on the figure beside him. A woman—young, with dark circles beneath wide, desperate eyes—held onto him with a grip that trembled. Strands of her disheveled hair clung to her damp cheeks, as if she had been crying. It was the woman from before. 

She leaned closer, her fingers tightening around his own.

"Alex?" Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper.