At first, there was nothing but throbbing, painful darkness. It seeped into every sensation, suffocating and blinding—not the absence of light, but an unfamiliarity with light altogether.
Then light came, a pinpoint of brightness pricking a dark canvas, feeble before it was dazzling. It shepherded in a maelstrom of color: gold expanding like lungs bringing in new air; red perfusing emptiness as blood trickled into skin; blue and silver swirling through it all with the languor of a tired exhale. Beneath it, a lonely percussion ferried in the sound of music:
Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub.
The orchestra picked up in earnest, the pull of an erhu growing taut as muscle fibers tensed and the airy notes of a bamboo flute drew and released breath. Heat entered after, painting the suggestion of a body—the core first, wherein nestled a fist-size muscle seized with new life. The heat expanded outward, tracing the length of limbs, flooding new skin, dissipating through gaping orifices. It dragged innervation in its wake like a sunrise, first as needlelike pricks of pain, then as the buzzing calm of warmth. Electricity was last to follow, crackling through old conduits anew, following the familiar patterns of well-traversed footpaths.
The body came together in parts, then all at once.
Muscle tightened against bone, skin flushed with life, and organs lurched with renewed autonomy.
Colors merged like a symphony, electricity settled into the body, and Suonyasan Nhika drew her first breath.