LILY
The first thing I notice is the smell—antiseptic and floor cleaner, the distinctive cocktail that means hospital.
The second thing is the pain. It starts in my abdomen and radiates outward like broken glass, sharp and unforgiving.
The third thing is that my baby is gone.
I know before I open my eyes, before anyone tells me. I know because the feeling is different. The constant awareness of another life inside me, the gentle fluttering that had become as familiar as my heartbeat—it's all gone.
"She's waking up."
A woman's voice, gentle but professional. I force my eyes open and immediately regret it as fluorescent lights stab into my skull.
"Easy now. You've been through quite an ordeal."
A nurse with kind eyes and graying hair leans over me. Her name tag reads "Alessa Mike, RN
