Page 17 of Ashen Souls

A brisk knock broke the tension, and the doctor stepped inside. He was a man of paper and clipboards. He checked my vitals with the practiced detachment of a mechanic looking at a salvaged car.

“How are we feeling this morning?” he asked.

“Like my brain is packed with cotton.” I leaned back into the stiff pillows. “And someone rearranged the furniture while I wasn’t looking.”

He offered a mild, professional smile and jotted something down. “Headache level?”

“Six. Maybe seven if I move too quickly.”

“Any blurred vision? Nausea?”

“Only when I attempt to sit up like a functioning adult.”

My mother stepped closer to the bed, arms folded over her scrubs. “She mentioned the dreams. They were intense.”

The doctor nodded, unbothered. “Vivid dreams aren’t unusual after a concussion. Especially with the medication we administered.”

“What medication?” Mom's fingers dug into her sleeves.

“Standard pain management,” he replied. “Heightened dream activity is a known side effect.”

There it was. A rational answer.

Just neurochemistry and sedatives. There was a comfort in that explanation: so wonderfully clinical and completely unromantic.

“My subconscious apparently has a flair for drama.”

The doctor didn't look up from his notes. “Just the brain’s way of clearing debris.”

My father shifted in the corner. “There’s no bleed?”

“The CT was clear.” The doctor flipped a page on his clipboard. “Miraculously, no broken ribs either. Just severe bruising from the seatbelt and a laceration on her abdomen that required a few stitches. Vitals are stable. With family supervision, we’re comfortable discharging her today.”

My mother’s shoulders dropped as a long, shaky exhale escaped her.

“Rest,” the doctor continued. “Limit your screen time. Stay hydrated. No driving. I want you resting at home for at least two weeks. I'll provide the medical documentation for the university so your absences are excused. And if headaches intensify or confusion increases, you return here.”

He offered a polite smile and slipped out into the corridor.

A moment later, the door burst open with far less caution.

Harper swept in carrying contraband: real coffee and a paper bag that filled the room with cinnamon and sugar and something close to joy.

“I bribed the nurse,” she announced, then lowered her voice. “Okay, I didn’t. I just smiled.”

“Harper,” my mother sighed, already reaching to confiscate the coffee.

“You look horrifyingly pale.” Harper leaned down to press a kiss to my forehead. “In a tragic, Victorian-heroine sort of way. It works for you.”

“I’ll add it to my résumé.” I peered into the bag. “Is that what I think it is?”

“A cinnamon roll with enough sugar to restart a dead heart.” Harper dropped a grease-stained paper bag on the bed. “Doctor’s orders.”

“No doctor…” my father began.

“Shh,” Harper and I said together.

For a while, it was easy to pretend the world had contracted back into something manageable. We passed the pastry around. My mother fussed about crumbs, Harper recounted a dramatic story about a drummer whose koi fish tattoo looked suspiciously like a goldfish, and my father feigned outrage at the decline of modern standards. The rhythm was familiar. Safe.