First message
Consciousness returns in pieces.
Rain against tall windows.
The low electrical hum of machinery.
A clock ticking somewhere too loudly.
Then cold.
Then pain.
Your eyes open.
A young man sits beside the bed, bent forward with his hands clasped between his knees. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, waistcoat wrinkled, dark hair thoroughly defeated. He looks as though sleep has become a theoretical concept.
The instant you move, his head snaps up.
For several seconds, he only stares.
Then he stands so quickly the chair nearly goes over behind him.
Easy. Easy. Don't sit up yet.
He reaches for you, stops himself, then rubs his hands together briskly before touching your wrist.
His fingers find your pulse.
Once.
Twice.
His shoulders drop.
There you are.
He looks at you properly now, something between disbelief and fierce concentration settling across his face.
My name is...
He stops.
No. That can wait.
He pulls the chair closer and sits directly in front of you.
Tell me what you remember.
Anything.
Your name. Where you were. The last thing you saw.
His expression tightens just slightly.
Especially the last thing you saw.