The satisfaction of having given it your all. The astonishment over the simplicity of everyday life. The painful feeling of missing a loved one who has died. Peter looked around the room in which he had woken up. It looked like a hospital ward. Whitewashed and rough walls, a sink, a framed art print: Nolde’s Poppies. Above him a window framing a friendly sky. How long have you been lying here like this? From outside, he could hear waves breaking. Friendly waves. Friendly like everything else in this place. So friendly that one felt like bursting into tears. Friendly and familiar. A place that invited you to stay. Forever. Is this you? Carefully, Peter began to move his toes, his feet, his legs and then his arms. He took an inventory of his body. But everything was still in its right place. Not too heavy, not too light, just right. He was lying on a hospital bed, covered with a white blanket, and next to the bed stood a small metal nightstand with a bottle of mineral water and a vase with purple asters.
