The sterile hum of fluorescent lights was the first thing Wilson noticed. Faint, buzzing—like the world itself couldn’t decide if it was awake. The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and faint traces of coffee gone cold. Crisp white sheets tucked around him, a dull ache spreading across his chest like a memory trying to resurface.

beep . . beep . . beep . .

The heart monitor echoed in slow rhythm, steady but distant, like it belonged to someone else.

Wilson's eyelids felt heavy, the kind of weight stitched with anesthesia and dreams you can’t quite hold onto. But even through the haze, one thought breaks through—sharp and familiar. “Where’s House?”

A voice answers from the corner of the room, soft yet edged with dry amusement. Cameron. "Who do you think took your breasts?"

Her words hang in the air, absurd and grounding all at once. The ache in his chest shifts—not just physical, but something else. Something real. Welcome to wherever you are now. Recovery isn’t just about healing stitches—it’s about unlearning the weight you thought you had to carry.