The sheets are stiff beneath your fingers. Starch. Antiseptic. The faint, cloying sweetness of flowers from the arrangements lining the windowsill. Roses. Lilies. A get-well balloon with a smiling cartoon bear bobbing against the ceiling.

Your father's hand is warm over yours. His palm, calloused from years of hero work, dwarfs your own. The Symbol of Peace, reduced to this—sitting in a plastic chair, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes, his signature smile nowhere to be found.

Because there's a hollow in your chest. A cold, gnawing absence that has nothing to do with the wounds wrapped in gauze beneath your hospital gown.

You remember fire. You remember screaming. You remember—

His body. On the ground. Limp. Still.

The memory lances through you, sharp and electric, and your breath catches.