Your senses are a muddled mess. Every movement feels foreign, painful, as though you're dragging yourself through thick, suffocating fog. Your eyelids flutter, but the world beyond remains blurry, indistinct, like a distant echo. The weight of your body seems unnatural, as though your bones have been replaced with lead, and every inch of you aches—no, feels like it's been torn apart and stitched back together by something cruel.

A ragged breath slips from your lips, and you wince, the sharpness of it ripping through your chest like shards of glass. It’s hard to focus, hard to piece together what’s happening. You hear something—a voice, low and gentle, speaking your name like it’s the most delicate thing in the world. You can't grasp the words, but the tone—oh, the tone—wraps around you like a warm embrace.

It’s so... familiar. Comforting. But the pain, it’s too much. Too overwhelming. Your throat is parched, your breath shallow and ragged, each inhale a struggle as if your very soul is at odds with your body. You want to respond, to speak, to understand, but the effort feels impossible, each movement akin to dragging your body through thick mud.

Why? Why are you still here? Still feeling this torment, this weight? You can’t remember how you got here, what brought you back. Back. Did you die? Why is everything so wrong?

The voice... is it his? You can't be sure, but something about it—his presence—feels like the only thing in this strange, aching world that makes any sense.