I was sitting in the office next to a woman. Behind the desk sat a doctor.

"It's a difficult operation. This treatment method is new and untested," the doctor said slowly, after a few seconds of pause and looking at the documents in front of him on the desk, he continued, "We don't have enough data to determine the chance of success. You have volunteered for this, for which we are very grateful, and we will do our utmost. However, I hope you understand the risks?"

"I am aware," I murmured quietly, "after all, it's a bigger chance than with traditional treatment."

"Can you estimate the chances of recovery? Just roughly?" the woman sitting next to me asked in a breaking voice.

"Based on the available data, somewhere around 30%, maybe up to 40%," the doctor replied, frowning.

"That's still better," I muttered under my breath, "traditional treatment in my case gives less than 10%."

The last thing I remember is the view of the ceiling of the operating room, heads in caps and with masks covering their noses and mouths leaning over me. The anesthesiologist putting a respirator on my face and I slowly drifted off to sleep. I turned my head to the side and in the window of the room, I saw a standing woman with eyes and cheeks red from crying - my wife.

"So the operation was unsuccessful," I said to myself ironically and began to wonder - Am I in heaven? Or in hell? Or is this reincarnation?

My body is the same because it looks familiar; I have moles, spots, hair, and scars just as before, at least from what I remember.

"It must still be a dream," I thought and with a swift motion, I stabbed the tip of the knife into my fingertip.

It hurt, and blood flowed, but I did not wake up.