Sometimes, in the stillness of night, her imagination spiraled. What if the scar wasn’t from her C-section at all? What if they had cut her for another reason? She’d read stories of patients waking with scars from surgeries they never agreed to. Could she have become one of them?
The scar seemed to pulse with her heartbeat. Each time she touched it, she felt a faint throb, as if something beneath the skin resented her probing fingers. She caught herself flinching away, afraid of her own body, as though the truth lay buried beneath that stubborn ridge.