The suffocating smell of industrial bleach and rubbing alcohol in the hospital room was a sharp, chemical anchor dragging Roxy back into the darkest depths of her terrestrial past.
As the doctor's footsteps faded down the linoleum hallway, the heavy wooden door swung shut, sealing her inside. Marcus returned to the bedside, pulling up a plastic visitor's chair. He sat down, crossing his legs clad in expensive wool trousers, and let out a long, heavy sigh that sounded entirely too practiced.
Roxy stared at the acoustic ceiling tiles, the terrifying realization of the memory loop violently locking into place.
She remembered this day. She remembered it with a sickening, visceral clarity that made her paralyzed stomach churn. It wasn't just a random car accident. It was a Tuesday. It was raining. She had finally gathered the terrifying, monumental courage to hand him the manila envelope containing the divorce papers while they were sitting at a red light.
