🌙 Echoes of the Other Room

The sound comes first.

A slow, mechanical beeping, steady as a metronome.

Each pulse feels like it’s measuring not time, but distance — the distance between one breath and the next.

My eyes won’t open. They feel glued shut, heavy, unwilling. The air tastes metallic, sterile. Beneath it, there’s a faint trace of something sweeter — jasmine. My perfume.

Then, a voice cuts through the fog.

“You’re safe. You’re in the hospital. Try to relax.”

The words are calm, professional. But they don’t feel real. I can’t remember how I got here. I can’t remember anything except that sound — the long, thin beep that fills the silence like a warning.

And then, suddenly, another voice.

Lighter. Familiar.

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

The beeping fades. The smell of antiseptic is replaced by coffee. I blink — and when my eyes open, I’m not in a hospital. I’m in a sunlit bedroom with pale curtains and soft sheets. My husband, Aaron, is standing by the window, holding a mug. His eyes crinkle when he smiles.

“You were out cold. You okay?”

For a moment, I can only stare. The morning light touches his hair, making it almost gold. I feel warmth spread across my chest — comfort, familiarity, love. But then my gaze falls to my hand. The wedding ring is wrong. Thinner. Shinier.

Not the one I remember.

I try to shake the thought. Maybe I replaced it. Maybe this is a dream.

“Coffee?” Aaron asks, and I nod automatically.

The rich smell fills the air as I take the cup. Outside, birds sing. My reflection in the window looks… different. Softer, younger. Rested.

And then the TV flickers on.

Dr. Elara Miles receives humanitarian award for field medicine.

My breath catches. That’s my name.

I’m a doctor?

A flash — quick, sharp — jolts through my mind. Scrub lights. Blood. A crash.

Pain.

Then the sound of the beeping again, faint but growing louder.

“Vitals dropping — we’re losing her!”

The golden morning begins to fade like a reflection in rippling water. Aaron’s smile blurs. The cup slips from my hands, and before it can hit the floor—

I’m back in the white room.

The air is thick. Machines hum. A woman in scrubs leans over me.

“She’s coming around,” someone says.

My chest hurts. My head feels full of water. I want to ask what happened, but the words don’t come.

Then I feel something — a small hand, trembling, wrapped around mine.

“Mom? Please… please wake up.”

A boy’s voice.

It cuts deeper than any memory.

I want to look at him, to see his face, but my eyelids won’t move. His thumb rubs small circles on my skin. I can feel love radiating through his touch — a love that feels real.

But I don’t remember him.

The nurse says something about head trauma, coma, memory loss, but her voice drifts away. I close my eyes again, and the hum begins to fade—

Sunlight.

Warmth.

Aaron again, smiling in the kitchen.

Only, this time, the house is different — sleeker, modern. There are no toys, no noise, no clutter. My shoes click against marble. My clothes are crisp, expensive. I run a company. I drink my coffee alone.

There’s peace here, I think.

And silence.

But it’s the wrong kind of silence.

In the background, I swear I can still hear the faint echo of a child laughing.

It’s distant, but it lingers, curling around the edges of my perfect life like smoke.

I press my fingers against my temples. Maybe this is a side effect. Maybe I’m dreaming one life to escape the other.

The thought terrifies me.

“Dr. Miles,” a voice says — not Aaron’s this time, but the nurse again, from the other world. “We need you to open your eyes now.”

I freeze.

The command feels heavy. Final.

Open my eyes. Choose.

The two worlds blur together in my mind:

The sound of my son’s laugh against the clink of a coffee cup.

The smell of antiseptic tangled with roasted beans.

The feel of marble counters against the sticky warmth of small fingers.

Two lives. Both real. Both mine.

The beeping grows louder. The nurse’s voice sharper.

“Come on, Elara. Stay with us.”

I try to breathe, but the air won’t come. My chest burns.

I see Aaron — the sleek version of him — mouthing something I can’t hear. His image wavers like smoke, and through it, I see another man. Older. More tired.

The real Aaron.

Holding Liam’s hand.

The child’s voice breaks again, trembling and small.

“Mom, please don’t go.”

The sound hits something deep inside me.

It’s messy and human and mine.

I take a long, shuddering breath. The light grows brighter — too bright. For a moment, both worlds collapse into each other.

And then the choice is made.

The beeping steadies. The hum softens. I feel the weight of a small hand in mine.

When I open my eyes, it’s not marble floors or designer handbags waiting for me.

It’s Liam’s tear-streaked face.

The smell of disinfectant.

And the sound of life returning, one breath at a time.

I’m here.

In the only world that ever mattered.