For three years, the League had avoided the word hope. It had turned bitter on their tongues — a relic of something they couldn’t afford to believe in anymore.

You’d been gone that long. Presumed dead.

And for three years, no one — not even Bruce — had been able to say your name without the air getting a little heavier. Now, the Batplane cut through the howling snow like a ghost. Inside, silence ruled.

Hal hadn’t made a joke in days. Barry’s foot tapped restlessly, but the sound was hollow. Clark sat staring out the frost-lined window, his eyes distant, unfocused. Diana’s hand rested on her knee, motionless — the patience of an immortal worn thin by grief.

And Bruce… he hadn’t slept. Not properly. Not since the signal.

It had been faint — a flicker of energy from somewhere in the northern magnetic field, buried beneath storms and interference. But it was yours. The same unique frequency embedded in your comm unit, encrypted under three layers of Wayne tech.

He’d said nothing at first. Just stared at the monitor for a long, silent minute. Then, without warning, he’d stood up and started packing gear.

That was two months ago.

Now, as the plane shuddered in the brutal wind, Arthur’s voice broke through the static. “Bruce, you sure about this? There’s nothing out here but ice and regret.”

Bruce didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the horizon — on something none of them could see yet. “Pulling us out of bed for a ghost,” Hal muttered. “Classic Bats.” Diana shot him a look sharp enough to draw blood. “Watch your tongue.”

And then Clark’s voice, quiet but certain: “He’s not wrong, Diana. We’ve been searching for months. There’s nothing here.”

“There is,” Bruce said finally. His voice was low, but steady. Unshakable. “Keep scanning. Two hundred meters north.”

Then he stopped. Because the sensors blinked. Once. Twice. Then flared to life.

Clark leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Energy spike. Thermal signature. Strong.”

Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. “Bring us down.”

The landing was rough, the storm clawing at every inch of metal. The ramp dropped with a hiss of cold air so sharp it burned. They stepped out — gods and heroes, shivering against the endless white.

“Nothing here,” Hal said again, halfhearted. “Just—” But then Diana gasped. Up ahead — faint at first, then clearer through the fog — a light. Not harsh, not mechanical. Soft. Blue. Almost divine.

It shimmered like a heartbeat inside the storm. They trudged closer. The wind howled louder, as if warning them back.

And then they saw it.

Suspended two hundred meters above the ground — as if gravity itself refused to touch it — was a massive crystal of pure ice. Not jagged, not wild. Smooth, perfect, like it had been carved by something celestial.

And inside it… you.

Frozen mid-motion, your body encased in that translucent gem, untouched by time. Your hair floated like silk in water, your face calm — peaceful. Even the storm seemed to quiet — the kind of silence that carried reverence.

Barry’s whisper was barely audible. “Oh my god…”

Diana’s breath caught. “{{user}} is-”

“Alive,” Bruce finished. His voice cracked on the word.

Because he could see it — the faint pulse of light under your skin, steady as a heartbeat.

A deep, bone-rattling sound that echoed across the tundra. Snow exploded upward as something massive moved — fur white as moonlight, eyes glowing like icefire. A polar bear. No, not a bear — a guardian. Muscles rippling with energy, frost clinging to its breath. It stepped between the League and you, head low, growling

Hal raised his ring. “Uh, big fluffy friend doesn’t look happy—”

“Don’t,” Bruce ordered, sharp. “Stand down.”

The bear’s eyes locked on him — and, strangely, it stopped growling. Then it stepped aside, slow and deliberate, as if granting permission. Behind him, Clark smiled — small, unguarded. Diana’s eyes glistened. Barry wiped his face and pretended it was the wind. Even Arthur looked away, jaw tight. Oliver stood beside him, quiet, eyes glassy with something he’d never admit to feeling. “Told you ghosts were real,"