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It began quietly, imperceptibly.
Perfectly organized files would scatter across the floor under a strange gust of wind; tightly shut windows would fly open during a torrential downpour, soaking half the room; the toaster would fail to pop up at the set time, leaving bread charred black instead of golden brown.
Barry initially attributed it all to incredibly bad luck. After all, when luck runs out, even drinking water could make you choke. What truly planted the seed of doubt in his mind happened after that incident.
Perhaps driven by some hero complex, Barry knew his speed wouldn't be enough to save the little girl before the iron ladder crashed down. Yet, instinctively, he lunged forward, shielding her small body with his own. He prayed fervently: Don't die. Just don't die. As long as he lived, even the worst injuries would heal with the Speed Force; a few days in bed at most.
He clenched his eyes shut, bracing for the searing pain. With a deafening crash, the ladder hit the ground, the sound ringing painfully in his ears. Strangely, he felt no pain at all. Barry opened his eyes to find he had somehow slipped perfectly between the rungs, completely unharmed.
Impossible. The ladder had been aimed squarely at his head. It was as if someone had subtly shifted its angle the moment he dove. Even someone as oblivious as Barry sensed something was wrong.
When Barry mentioned it to those around him, they all insisted he was overworked, urging him to take a vacation and rest properly. Only he knew it wasn't that. It wasn't. Definitely not. Human intuition is a strange thing—intangible, elusive, lacking concrete proof, yet utterly convincing. Like feeling a chill despite standing in sunlight; sensing a familiar presence when no one was around; feeling a cold gaze on your back, only to turn and find nothing. Everything could be explained by science, yet nothing could be explained by science. Barry had a growing, uneasy feeling that he was being haunted by something.
Finally, one late night, Barry tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Just as a sliver of drowsiness crept in, an overwhelming pressure seized his throat, as if gripped by ten icy fingers, choking him. He snapped his eyes open, and the suffocating pressure vanished instantly, as if it were just a hallucination, a nightmare.
Rubbing his eyes, Barry instinctively glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand to check the time—and froze. The photo he always kept there was lying face down on the tabletop. Since he lived alone, he certainly hadn't done it. So then... Hesitantly, he reached out and turned the photo upright. It was a picture of him, Cisco, Caitlin, and Dr. Wells.
The man had been gone for a year. As time flowed on, the hatred had gradually eroded, replaced by a strange, unsettling emotion Barry dared not name. He couldn't voice it. He couldn't let anyone know he had so easily forgiven the mortal enemy who had killed his mother. He could only secretly place the photo by his bed; secretly revert his mental address for the man from 'Thawne' back to 'Dr. Wells'; secretly yearn for the days of having a mentor to guide him whenever he faced setbacks. While Cisco and Caitlin had moved on from the past, Barry remained stuck, unable to move forward. Though he hadn't known the man as long as they had, that man had carved a wound deep to the bone in his chest.
The window, he realized, was open. The wind rustled the curtains s, revealing a starless, ink-black night outside. Barry wished desperately to see a terrifying streak of red light flashing across the buildings; anything was better than this emptiness.
"Dr. Wells," he rasped into the hollow room, his voice rough, "Is that you?"
Silence answered him.
Barry sat up, hugged his knees, and buried his head within them.
"Dr. Wells... I miss you." Whether it was his imagination or not, the moment the words left his lips, the wind blowing in grew colder, the chill seeping into every pore of his body. Barry shivered. "If I'd known... I should have just let you go home. Dr. Wells, I..." The latter half of his words were swallowed by the rising wind and the white mist of his breath.
Barry remained curled up like that for a long time. Eventually, the wind subsided, leaving only the sound of his own shallow, uneven breaths, almost like muffled sobs, echoing in the vast room. His eyelids grew heavier, his body slid lower, and he fell asleep just like that.
Waking the next morning, Barry found himself tightly tucked under a blanket. He sat bolt upright, his eyes sparkling with starlight, the corners crinkling with a smile.
"Dr. Wells, Dr. Wells, Dr. Wells..."
Even with no one to answer, he chanted the name like an spell, as if saying it enough times could bring the dead back to life.
He excitedly shared the incident with Cisco, who responded with a look of pity, giving him the universal "Bro, you don't have to say it, I get it" expression. Barry didn't mention it to anyone else after that. He kept it as his little secret, a small anchor of hope. His understanding of the Speed Force was limited; perhaps an erased speedster didn't just vanish? Maybe they lingered in another form? Maybe, given time, there was even a chance for rebirth?
Barry began feverishly researching quantum mechanics, temporal paradoxes, the conservation of energy, and even delving into paranormal studies dismissed by mainstream science. He even smuggled STAR Labs' high-sensitivity audio recorders and electromagnetic field detectors into his bedroom, turning them on late at night, holding his breath. The screens showed only unwavering flat lines, cruelly mocking his desperate wish.
He started obsessively watching movies about spirits, ghosts, and guardian angels: Ghost, Just Like Heaven, Always, What Dreams May Come, City of Angels, Wings of Desire... Some had happy endings, others ended in tragedy. He watched them all, trying the methods depicted to communicate with him—coins, mirrors, even blood. Nothing worked.
Barry began buying double orders of Big Belly Burgers. He wasn't particularly fond of burgers, yet he bought them several times a week. He'd place the extra one on the table, unwrap it, letting the enticing aroma and rising steam fill the air. Then, he'd sit across from it, as if waiting for a late guest. He'd stare unblinkingly, watching the steam dissipate, the half-melted cheese solidify, the juices absorbed completely by the bun, the burger turning cold and stiff. He'd wait for hours, until the light faded from his eyes, before reluctantly picking up the cold burger and eating it, bite by tasteless bite. Cold burgers were awful.
Barry began talking to the air when alone. Movies showed spirits drifting aimlessly, unable to interact with anyone; he worried he might be bored. Whenever he had a free moment, he'd talk about recent events—his forensic work, his personal life, the Flash's daily routines. Cases where CCPD was stumped after a week; Iris still struggling to forget Eddie; new metas locked up in the Pipeline. "Dr. Wells," he'd say, lips pressing together, "The cell you were in... it's still empty. I'm keeping it vacant... waiting for you to come back so I can lock you up again."
The wind howled, sounding like a voice responding
No one else noticed Barry's strangeness. He kept it hidden, knowing full well that the more adamant he sounded, the more he'd be seen as crazy. His identity as the Flash already made many eager to dissect and experiment on him; he didn't need to add another reason. So, he quietly persisted in his rituals.
Until the day came.
The meta-human he faced that time was immensely powerful, capable of manipulating gravity at will, with no discernible weaknesses. An invisible force field warped the space around them, making every sprint feel like struggling through thick tar. Over the comms, he heard only Cisco and Caitlin's anxious arguing, offering no solutions. As he fought desperately, he thought of his mentor again, the man who had seemed all-knowing. If Dr. Wells were here, he thought, he'd tell me how to beat this enemy. He pictured Dr. Wells, finger resting thoughtfully on his lips, calmly issuing one precise command after another. Dr. Wells would say, 'Barry, I believe in you. Run, Barry, run.' He realized with painful clarity that he would give anything to have Dr. Wells back, to have him take control of his life again. Only, he feared he'd never hear that deep voice again.
Losing focus mid-battle against a superior opponent was suicide. Barry was struck. An invisible force crushed down on his entire body. Bones shattered. Organs compressed. Blood bubbled from his lips. Cisco and Caitlin screamed over the comms: "Barry! Your vitals are crashing! You'll die if this keeps up!"
I know, Barry thought. But I don't know what to do. I have no strength left to fight back. His head felt unbearably heavy. The pain began to numb. He just wanted to close his eyes and rest.
As consciousness started to fade, Barry saw a shimmering apparition materialize before him. Hazy, indistinct, yet undeniably familiar in silhouette.
"You look terrible, Flash."
The voice that had haunted his dreams, finally manifesting in reality. The tone was casual, as if mocking a rival, or perhaps bidding farewell to an old friend.
The specter bent down, its touch brushing Barry's cheek. It felt icy cold, yet sent a wave of warmth through Barry's heart. At first, it was like flowing air, intangible, but after a few heartbeats, Barry could feel the texture of fingertips, even a hint of temperature.
"Stop watching those silly movies. Utterly useless references."
"Stop eating so many Big Belly Burgers. You'll get too fat to run."
"Stop babbling endlessly into thin air. The things you talk about are boring. You'd be better off reading to me."
Barry's eyes welled up. He tried to speak, but only blood gurgled forth . All his words drowned in a wet, gurgling sound.
The apparition grew increasingly solid. Finally, Barry could see those eyes, blue as the ocean, and the faint, characteristic smile lines on the face. The man before him was dressed exactly as he had been on that first day, only missing the wheelchair. B Barry remembered that scene vividly even now: waking confused, talking to the unfamiliar man and woman, then hearing that magnetic voice behind him. Turning to see his idol for so many years, looking at him with eyes that seemed to know him intimately. The man had narrowed his eyes, nodded slightly, and said, Welcome back, Mr. Allen. We have much to discuss.
Now, those same blue eyes reflected his own dying state, yet held a compassion Barry had never seen before. Tears welled in Barry's eyes. The man smiled, shook his head, and sighed.
"Mr. Allen, we have much to discuss. Unfortunately, time is not on our side."
A terrible premonition struck. Barry sensed what the other intended to do. His pupils dilated frantically. He wanted to scream, Dr. Wells, no no no!... But his mouth only expelled more blood.
"Barry, how will you get along without me?"
The man looked down at him, a curve on his lips, his gaze mingled faint amusement with unexpected tenderness. The next instant, the nightmare became reality. Just like the day the man's existence was erased, crumbling to dust, the nearly solidified apparition dissolved into points of crimson light. They swirled, coalescing into a shroud of scarlet that enveloped them both, then surged into Barry. A wave of warmth flooded through him. His stalled Speed Force reignited. Wounds knitted closed. Clarity returned. The apparition was gone. The meta-human who had inflicted such damage lay dead on the ground, a gaping hole torn through its chest.
Barry stood up dazedly, disbelief warring with horror. He looked down at himself, then at the corpse, his pupils dilated to their limit. The hole wasn't in his chest, yet he felt a tearing pain rip through it. The man hadn't vibrated his hand through Barry's heart, yet he had shattered it all the same.
"Dr. Wells! Dr. Wells! Dr. Wells!"
He whirled around, screaming himself hoarse. Yellow lightning crackled uncontrollably around him, brighter and fiercer than ever before.
This time, not even the wind answered him.
Barry stood there for a long, long time. Daylight faded. Night deepened. The air turned cold. Clouds swallowed the sky.
"Dr. Wells..."
Tears fell, one by one.
Rain began to fall.
The wind stirred.