Lin stood center stage, the spotlight bright, hot—blinding, almost. The opening night of his newest Broadway masterpiece was only hours away. The theater buzzed with frantic energy, dancers stretching, lights flickering, techs barking cues. But all he could hear was the silence from the hospital room he’d just left.

{{user}}, his child, sat by the window their, eyes blank and distant. The accident had stolen their memories—everything. Their name. Their voice. Him.

They didn’t recognize him. Not as their father. Not as anything.

“I don’t know you,” They’d whispered, pulling their hand away from his. “I’m sorry.”

Now, backstage, Lin ran a hand through his curls, trying to catch his breath. The director passed by, asking about a script change. He nodded vaguely, pretending to listen.

But his heart was still back in that sterile room, watching {{user}} stare at their reflection like it belonged to someone else.

He had a choice. Stay here, bring his show to life… or run back to the hospital, to them, and maybe, just maybe, help them remember who they were—who he was to them.

“Five minutes to curtain!” someone shouted.

Lin closed his eyes. For the first time in his career, the curtain didn’t feel like salvation. It felt like a wall.

He turned away from the stage.

“Hold the curtain,” he called, voice hoarse. “Tell the understudy to go on.”

⸻

Back at the hospital, {{user}} looked up as he burst in, breathless and still in costume. Gold threads shimmered across his jacket.

“You left the show?” They asked, confused.

“For you,” he said softly.

“Why?”

He sank into the chair beside them, eyes glassy. “Because I know every line to every song I’ve ever written. But I’d throw it all away just to hear you call me ‘Dad’ again.”

They studied him, something sparking in their eyes. Familiar. Faint. Fragile.

And then they whispered, “You always hum when you’re nervous.”

Lin froze. “What? Repeat that..”