1995 - January

I had lived a full life, and now I could feel its final chapter closing. My family gathered around me in the hospital, their faces etched with sorrow and quiet resignation. The nurses, gentle and practiced, administered pain medication that dulled the ache that had built over the past eighteen months. The doctors had once said I had years left—but life, as always, had its own timeline. I wished for more time, of course, but I had made peace with the end.

My two sons stood nearby with their families, watching in silence. One of my grandchildren, Bradly, tried to break free and run into the hallway. I smiled, remembering the days when my own legs had carried me with such energy. The others sat quietly, eyes full of tears. A soft ringing filled the room. The nurse entered, touched the machine beside me, and gently rubbed my arm. She leaned close and whispered, “Time to sleep, Mr. Thomas. It’s been a long fight. You can rest now.” Her fingers brushed across my forehead, and my eyes closed. I tried to speak, but it was too late. My last thought was of my family—wishing I had just a little more time.

1996 - July

I awoke to darkness—not the kind that frightens, but the kind that feels like a warm cocoon. My senses were dulled, my thoughts distant and dissolving like mist. I didn’t know where I was, or who I was, but I felt no fear. Perhaps I was forming—waiting for the world to come into focus. Exhaustion wrapped around me like a blanket. I surrendered to sleep once more.

Day 1

I woke for the first time, though something told me I had existed long before this moment. I was nestled among others—similar in size, shape, and age. We were grouped into clusters called “hands,” though I didn’t know what that meant. It felt like a designation, a way to organize us. I stopped counting after seventy.

We were all growing, slowly but surely. That sameness brought comfort. Standing out felt dangerous, though I didn’t know why. I was tired, but energy pulsed inside me. I sensed that we were becoming something. What that was, I couldn’t say. But I hoped I’d be ready when the time came.

Day 28

The days passed in quiet rhythm. I didn’t know how many, but I began to sense the others—not just as shapes beside me, but as presences. We pulsed together, like notes in a song I didn’t know I was part of. I couldn’t speak, but I felt them. Their warmth. Their stillness. Their growth.

Sometimes, I imagined we were connected by invisible threads, stretching from one to the next. I didn’t know what we were becoming, but I knew we were becoming it together. That mattered. That felt right.

I didn’t have a name yet. None of us did. But I knew who I was by how I fit among them. I belonged. And in that belonging, I found comfort.

Day 40

Time passed, though I didn’t feel it. I was suspended, growing, silent. There were no thoughts, only warmth. No words, only rhythm. Somewhere, far away, I thought I heard a bell. Or maybe it was a memory.

Day 70

Time moves strangely here. I don’t know how long I’ve been growing, but today feels different—like I’ve reached a new stage. I’m fuller now, rounder. There’s a quiet pride in that.

We hang together, our hand swaying gently in the breeze. I’ve come to know the others—not by name, but by rhythm. We grow at the same pace, breathe the same air, share the same silence. Sometimes, if I concentrate, I can sense distant thoughts from neighboring hands. Faint impressions. Echoes.