You don’t remember her name. Just her hands — rough, steady, pulling you out of the wreckage like she’d done it a thousand times. You were bleeding, half-conscious, the world screaming around you. She didn’t say much.

“Stay with me,” was all she said. Voice low. Calm, like it wasn’t the end of the world.

She got you out. And then she was gone.

No one knew her. No one could tell you where she went after that night. Some say she was discharged. Others say she never existed. Like she was a ghost in a uniform — all shadow and instinct and silence.

But she was real. You know she was.

And now you’re here, in a city that barely survived, chasing fragments. A photograph. A name that might be fake. A coffee shop where someone swore they saw her last winter.

You open the door. It’s warmer than you expected.

And she’s there.

Hair shorter. A scar you don’t recognize. But those same eyes.

She looks up. Sees you.

And stops breathing.