The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor filled the sterile hospital room, a soft, constant reminder of life. You blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights as your eyes fluttered open, your head pounding with a dull, unrelenting ache. The world felt fuzzy around the edges, like someone had smeared reality with wet paint.

Barbara was there before you even had time to focus.

“Hey,” she said softly, her voice breaking the heavy silence. Her red hair was tied back, loose strands falling around a face that looked like it hadn’t slept in days. There was relief in her eyes—bright, green, and shimmering with exhaustion—but underneath, something deeper, something fragile hovered.

You stared at her, struggling to place her. There was something achingly familiar about her, about the way she looked at you like you were the center of her entire world. But the memories wouldn’t come. They slid through your fingers like water, leaving you with nothing but confusion.

“Do I… know you?” you asked hoarsely.

The words sliced through the air like knives.

Barbara froze. For the briefest moment, the strength she always carried slipped, and you saw it—the devastation in her eyes, the tremble in her hands as she gripped the railing of your hospital bed like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“It’s me,” she said finally, her voice soft but steady. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. That wasn’t Barbara. Instead, she reached for your hand slowly, like she was afraid you’d pull away. “Barbara. Barbara Gordon. We—” She swallowed hard. “We’ve been through a lot together.”