I don't wake up.
Not really.
Time becomes something soft and shapeless, like I'm floating just beneath the surface of a dark pool. I don't dream the way people describe dreams. There are no images, no stories—just sensations. Pressure. Warmth. A distant, rhythmic sound that I eventually realize is a heart monitor keeping count for me.
Sometimes I feel a hand in mine.
Small. Trembling.
Emma.
Even like this, I know it's her.
Her grip tightens every so often, like she's afraid that if she lets go—even for a second—I'll slip somewhere she can't follow.
I'm still here, I try to tell her.
Nothing moves.
Voices reach me in pieces.
Muted. Careful. Adults trying not to break.
"He hasn't woken up yet," my mother says. Her voice sounds older than it should. Like it's been carrying weight nonstop.
"How long ?" my father asks.
"Days," someone answers. A stranger. Calm. Professional.
I feel movement near the bed. The faint brush of fabric. A clipboard shifting hands.
"We ran every scan we could," the doctor says quietly. "Physically, he's stable."
My father exhales, sharp with relief. "So he'll be okay ?"
There's a pause.
Long enough that even in the dark, I feel it.
"We need to speak privately."
Footsteps. Chairs moving.
Emma's hand squeezes mine harder.
"Don't go," she whispers, voice cracking. "Please don't go, Barry. I'm right here."
If I could cry, I would.
—-
The doctor's voice drops to a whisper, but sound travels strangely when you're not fully asleep.
"The lightning strike wasn't normal," he says. "The electrical discharge interacted with something already in his system."
My father's breath stutters. "Interacted with what?"
"Compound V."
Silence crashes down harder than the thunder ever did.
"It reacted," the doctor continues. "We've seen similar cases, though they're rare. The electricity didn't damage his organs—it… activated something. Or changed it."
My mother speaks, barely audible. "What does that mean?"
"It means," the doctor says gently, "that physically, your son is fine. But neurologically… we don't know what will happen. We don't know if he'll wake up. And if he does—"
He stops himself.
"We can't predict what kind of changes may occur."
My father makes a sound like he's been punched.
"I—I need to sit down," he mutters.
A chair scrapes against the floor.
—--
I feel my mother return to my side.
Her hand brushes my hair back, slow and careful, like I might break. She watches me sleep—really sleep, the kind that looks peaceful enough to lie.
Tubes run from my arms. Clear plastic, steady drips. Machines breathe for me when I forget.
Emma is still there.
Always there.
She rests her forehead against the side of the bed, still holding my hand, her tears warm where they land on my skin.
"I don't like hospitals," she whispers. "They take people."
Her fingers tighten again.
"You're not allowed to go anywhere. Okay? You promised."
I wish I could answer.
I wish I could tell her that I'm trying.
—--
That somewhere, deep inside, something is burning—quiet now, contained—but alive.
There is no pain.
There isn't even darkness at first—just absence.
Then the darkness settles in, complete and absolute, like the universe forgot to finish loading. No floor beneath my feet. No sky above my head. No sense of direction, distance, or time. I don't feel my body. I don't feel my breath.
I exist.
And that's all I can say for sure.
' Am I dead ? '
The thought doesn't echo. It just hangs there, unanswered.
Time stretches until it stops meaning anything. Seconds, minutes, years—it's all the same when nothing changes. Panic tries to rise, but even that feels muted, like it's happening to someone else.
Then—
Barry…
The voice is soft.
Not loud. Not commanding. It doesn't come from any direction at all. It simply is, like it's always been there and I'm only now noticing it.
Something appears in front of me.
At first, it's barely more than a spark. A point of light no bigger than a star seen from far away. But it grows—slowly, patiently—until it becomes a radiant glow, warm and alive, filling the emptiness without pushing it away.
I feel… seen.
The light stops a few steps in front of me, though I never actually moved.
"You've suffered enough," the voice says gently. "And you've endured quietly."
I try to speak.
' Who are you ? '
Nothing comes out. No sound. No breath.
Panic flares—
—but the light pulses, calm and reassuring.
"I hear you," she says. "You don't need words here."
Relief crashes through me, sharp and overwhelming.
"What I offer you is a gift," she continues. "Not as a reward. Not as a burden. But as a chance."
The light brightens, and I feel something stir deep inside me—something familiar and frightening, like standing at the edge of a storm.
"This world you live in is sick," she says, without bitterness. "Not because of power… but because of how power is used. You've seen it. You've feared it. And still, you chose to protect what is important to you."
Images flicker at the edges of my awareness—Emma crying, Sam being dragged away, Luke burning in fear, my parents standing helpless beside a hospital bed.
"I want you to help heal it," the voice says. "In the way only you can."
Questions explode inside me.
' Why me ?
How do you know me ?
What are you ? '
Again, no voice leaves me.
But she answers anyway.
"I have watched you," she says softly. "Since the moment you arrived in this universe. Since your second beginning. You learned restraint when others would have chosen rage. You learned patience in a world that rewards cruelty."
The light shifts, almost like a smile.
"I hope you do great things with what I give you."
Then she says the words that make everything inside me go still.
"Those few who truly come to understand me… call me the Speed Force."
Shock ripples through me.
The Speed Force.
I know her.
Of course I do.
From comics. From shows. From stories about lightning and red suits and men who run faster than time itself. As an old fan, how could I not know?
Barry Allen.
The Flash.
The irony almost hurts.
I try to react. To laugh. To scream. To ask if this is a joke.
The light surges.
And suddenly—
I'm falling.
—-
My eyes snap open.
White ceiling.
Fluorescent lights.
The steady beep… beep… beep of a heart monitor.
My chest rises sharply as I gasp for air, lungs burning like they've been empty for years. My head throbs, but I'm awake. I'm awake.
"Barry—?"
Emma's voice breaks as she leans into view, eyes wide, red, alive.
I stare up at the sterile ceiling of the hospital, my heart racing—not from fear, but from something else entirely.
Something electric.
Something fast.
And somewhere deep inside me, I feel it—
Waiting.