Darkness is not black.
When you’re trapped inside your own body, darkness is gray—broken by flashes of hospital lights, the steady beep of machines, and voices you’re not meant to hear. Sound becomes everything when your eyelids won’t open and your fingers refuse to move.
My name is Elena Castillo—at least that’s what the medical chart at the foot of my bed in the ICU of La Paz Hospital in Madrid says. To my husband, Carlos, and the woman holding his arm with intimate familiarity, I am something else entirely.
I am an obstacle.
One they believe has finally been removed.
