Your mind was a storm you could never outrun.

Fragments of lives that weren’t yours—memories, words, battles fought in another body, under another sky, beside someone whose presence felt more real than your own reflection. You carried them with you like ghosts pressed beneath your skin.

A woman.

You couldn’t remember her name. Not her face. Not her voice. And yet, you felt her every day. In the pauses between thoughts. In the ache behind your ribs. In the certainty that something essential was missing.

You saw her everywhere.

In passing strangers. In reflections. In the corner of your vision when the light shifted just right. Every place you went, some part of you was convinced she would be there—waiting, remembering what you could not.

Until one day, she was.

You were coming home from work, blueprints still heavy in your bag, your mind dulled by routine. The stairwell echoed softly as you climbed, footsteps familiar, unremarkable.

Then you passed a red-haired woman.

Your body reacted before thought could catch up.

Your soul recognized her.

You turned.

So did she.

The world seemed to narrow to the space between you, the air thick and trembling, as if reality itself had drawn a breath. When your eyes met hers, something locked into place. A thousand lifetimes surged beneath the surface—wings, war cries, deserts under Thanagar's sun, love sharpened by tragedy.

She was wearing a Chicago Police Department's uniform. She didn't have wings unlike in all the lives before.

But you knew she recognized you too.

Tears blurred both your visions before you could stop them.

Your hearts stuttered, then stopped altogether.

And without thinking—without choosing—the same question echoed in your minds and rose from both your lips at the exact same moment:

“What’s your name?”