Back Before the Credits Rolled.

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I was watching my own funeral again.

It had become a habit. Not an unhealthy one, I told myself. Just something to do while floating. There was a great deal of free time when you were no longer attached to a body. No schedules. No skin. No obligations except mild curiosity.

Floating was pleasant. No knees to ache. No back to protest. No constant awareness of where one ended and the world began. I drifted above what had housed me for thirty-three years and examined it with the mild interest usually reserved for forgotten clothing.

There it was. Lying still. The body. Folded badly, like an abandoned shirt that no longer fit anyone. Bones holding their shape out of habit. Skin doing its best to appear useful. I felt no dramatic grief. No longing. Mostly relief. The way one feels after taking off tight shoes at the end of a long day.

The room surprised me. I had expected gloom. Instead, it was neat. Almost cheerful. A fairly large room, clean enough to suggest effort but not love. Green-painted windows stood open, letting in air and noise and the unapologetic brightness of a garden outside. Hibiscus flowers bloomed loudly, as if unaware they were being inappropriate. Khus blinds were rolled halfway up, pretending they had been arranged intentionally. The bed was covered in white sheets, with a rubber sheet underneath—because even in death, mess was expected.

I wondered briefly who had decided on the rubber sheet. Someone practical, clearly. Someone who had known me well.

From where I floated, I could see everything and nothing felt personal. The body was no longer me. It was an object I recognized, the way one recognizes an old photograph and thinks, Yes, that was me once. I suppose.

I considered moving on. Wherever on was. There was no sign pointing the way. No instructions. No welcoming committee. Just space. Endless, patient space.

“She is coming to awareness,” a voice said.

It annoyed me immediately. Not the voice itself, but the assumption. Awareness of what, exactly? I was doing just fine, thank you.

The floating stopped without asking my opinion.

Weight returned like an insult. Gravity reclaimed its rights. My heels pressed into the mattress. My hands lay where they had been placed, obedient even now. My head rested on the pillow, neck stiff, body suddenly full of complaints it had apparently saved up.

A needle poked my wrist, as if to say, Welcome back.

A fan whirred above me, loud and unnecessary. Someone nearby kept talking, words tumbling over each other with professional cheer. I tried to concentrate but discovered listening required effort. Even annoyance required effort.

Then I heard crying.

Not mine.

That realization arrived slowly, like a joke whose punchline you didn’t want but understood anyway. The sound was sharp, demanding, entirely uninterested in my existential confusion.

The nurse moved closer. I smelled disinfectant, then rose essence layered on top, as if someone had decided cleanliness alone was too honest. Hands adjusted tubes. Something was removed. Something else was placed carefully into my arms.

“Patient has come back to awareness,” the nurse announced, sounding faintly disappointed that I had not stayed wherever I had gone.

The crying stopped.

The weight in my arms was real. Warm. Breathing. Unimpressed by my metaphysical journey. I looked down at the small face and thought, with some bitterness and admiration, So this is what brought me back.

Floating had been easier. Staying, apparently, was the joke.

I sighed, adjusted my grip, and remained anyway.