Chapter 27: The Crying Child

The red Chi roared like a storm.

But somewhere beneath it — beneath the blood, the fury, the cracking of glass and bone — a soft jade glow pulsed from the ornament in Kotomi’s hair.

And then, silence.

***

She awoke to warmth.

Not heat. Not pain. Just warmth — like sunlight through gauze, like a memory of spring.

Kotomi blinked.

The world around her was white. Not sterile, but soft. Endless. A room with no corners, no ceiling, no shadows. Just light.

She lay on something she couldn’t name — not quite a bed, not quite air. Her limbs felt weightless. Her chest didn’t ache. Her breath came easy.

Somewhere nearby, a hum drifted through the air — familiar, melodic. A lullaby.

She turned her head.

A figure sat beside her, blurry at first. A woman, resting her head gently on Kotomi’s lap, stroking her hair with slow, rhythmic care.

The woman looked up and smiled.

“Time for wakey, wakey, sweetie.”

Kotomi froze.

Her breath caught in her throat.

The woman’s face came into focus — soft eyes, warm cheeks, a smile that lived in her oldest memories.

“…Mama?”

Kotori giggled, brushing a lock of hair behind Kotomi’s ear. “Look at you. I can’t believe how much my baby’s grown.”

Kotomi’s eyes filled with tears.

She didn’t ask if it was real. Didn’t care.

She threw her arms around her mother and held her like she’d never let go.

The hug was everything — warmth, safety, the scent of home. Her mother’s arms wrapped around her, steady and sure, like they always had.

“I missed you,” Kotomi whispered, voice cracking.

“I know,” Kotori said, her voice trembling too. “I missed you more.”

They stayed like that for a long time — no time at all.

Then Kotori pulled back, cupping her daughter’s face.

“Can you stand, sweetheart?”

Kotomi nodded, wiping her eyes.

“Good,” her mother said, rising and offering her hand. “Come on. There’s something I want to show you.”

Kotomi took it.

And together, they walked into the light.

The light shifted as they walked.

Not brighter. Not dimmer. Just… deeper. Like the white around them had layers, and they were passing through them one by one.

Kotomi’s bare feet made no sound on the floor — if there even was a floor. It felt like walking on memory.

Her mother’s hand was warm in hers. Steady. Familiar.

They passed into a corridor — long, arched, and impossibly tall. The walls were adorned with golden cherubs, each one carved in delicate relief. Some held trumpets. Others held wands. One had a tiny crown of stars.

Kotomi slowed, brushing her fingers along the wall. The gold was warm to the touch.

“They’re beautiful,” she whispered.

Kotori smiled. “You used to draw them. Remember? You said magical girls needed friends too.”

Kotomi blinked. “I… did?”

“You were five. You made me tape your drawings to the ceiling so they could ‘watch over the world.’”

A soft laugh escaped her lips — surprised, fragile. “I forgot that.”

Her smile faded as her hand drifted to her chest.

There was no pain.

But the hole was still there.

A perfect circle, bloodless, just above her heart.

She stopped walking.

“Mama,” she said quietly. “Am I… dead?”

Kotori didn’t answer.

She just looked ahead, her smile gentle but unreadable.

Kotomi’s voice trembled. “Is this where people go when they die?”

Still no answer.

Only the hush of the hallway. The hum of something distant. The faint sound of water, somewhere ahead.

They stood in silence.

Then Kotori squeezed her hand. “Come on, sweetheart. It’s just a little farther.”

Kotomi hesitated.

Then followed.

The cherubs watched them pass, their golden eyes full of something she couldn’t name — not sorrow, not joy. The hallway opened into a courtyard of light.

There were no walls, no sky — just a vast, open space where the air shimmered like morning mist. At the center stood a fountain carved from white stone, its basin wide and still, its water impossibly clear.

At the top, a statue of a girl stood poised on one foot, holding a vase tilted just enough to let water pour in a gentle stream. Her cape fluttered behind her. A wand rested in her other hand.

Kotomi stopped.

The statue looked familiar.

Not in detail — but in feeling. The stance. The smile. The way the light caught her eyes.

“A magical girl?” Kotomi whispered.

Kotori smiled beside her. “You used to love them. Remember?”

Kotomi nodded slowly. “I had a wand. Pink and gold. I used to run around the neighborhood casting spells on people.”

“You called it ‘Joy Beam.’” Her mother laughed softly. “You made the mailman cry once. Happy tears, but still.”

They stood in silence, watching the water flow.

Then Kotori turned to her, voice softer now. “Now that you have accomplished becoming a magical girl, what do you want, Kotomi?”

The question hung in the air like a bell’s final note.

Kotomi blinked. “What do I…?”

Her throat tightened.

She wanted to say, This. You. I have everything I need.

She wanted to say, I want to stay.

But the words wouldn’t come. Because something inside her — something small and trembling — knew it wasn’t the whole truth.

She looked down at her hands. They were clean. Unscarred. But they didn’t feel like hers.

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

Kotori didn’t press. She just nodded, and turned back to the fountain. The water rippled.

And somewhere, far away, a cry echoed through the stillness. The question still lingered in the air.

What do you want?

Kotomi stared into the fountain’s surface, watching the water ripple in slow, concentric rings. Her reflection shimmered back at her — soft, whole, unscarred. A version of herself untouched by pain.

Then the ripple broke. A sound pierced the stillness.

A cry.

Distant, muffled — but unmistakable.

A boy’s voice.

Raw. Wordless. In pain.

Kotomi’s breath caught. She turned, scanning the courtyard, but there was no one else. Just her and her mother. Just the white and the gold and the water.

But the cry came again.

This time, she knew.

“Kyle,” she whispered.

Kotori’s expression didn’t change.

“Mama—” Kotomi turned to her, frantic. “Where is he? What’s happening?”

Kotori didn’t answer.

Instead, she knelt beside the fountain and skimmed her fingers across the surface.

The water stilled.

Then shifted.

Images bloomed beneath the surface — not reflections, but windows. Visions.

Kyle stood in the center of a ruined chamber, drenched in blood and red Chi. His eyes were wild, his face streaked with tears and gore. The Sunbreaker moved in his hand like a living thing, carving arcs of destruction through the air.

Akaname fell around him in pieces.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

He looked like a demon.

Kotomi stumbled back, hand over her mouth. “No… no, that’s not him. That’s not—”

“He’s breaking,” Kotori said softly.

Kotomi turned to her. “We have to help him.”

Her mother’s eyes were full of sorrow. “You can’t.”

“Yes, I can—”

“You’re dead, sweetie.”

Kotomi froze.

The words hit like a second bullet.

She looked down at her chest again. The hole was still there. Still clean. Still final.

Her voice cracked. “Then what am I doing here?”

Kotori rose, brushing her hands dry. “You’re resting. You’re safe. You’re home.”

“No,” Kotomi said, backing away. “No, this isn’t—this isn’t right. He needs me. I can feel it.”

Kotori’s gaze softened. “And what can you do, Kotomi? You’re gone. He’s already lost you.”

Kotomi shook her head. “He hasn’t. Not yet.”

The fountain shimmered again — Kyle’s scream echoed louder now, ragged and hoarse. He was surrounded, but he didn’t care. He was cutting through them like they were paper.

Kotomi turned to her mother, eyes wide with panic. “Please. There has to be a way.”

Kotori didn’t answer.

But the light around them began to shift.

And the golden gate waited just ahead.

The courtyard dissolved.

Light folded inward, and the world reshaped itself.

Now they stood before a gate — vast, golden, and impossibly tall. It shimmered like sunlight on water, its surface etched with symbols Kotomi couldn’t read but somehow understood. Peace. Rest. Release.

Beyond it, she saw nothing.

And yet, she felt everything.

A warmth that promised no more pain. No more fear. No more fighting.

Kotori stood beside her, still holding her hand. “This is the place,” she said softly. “Where no one has to suffer. Where nothing can hurt you anymore.”

Kotomi stared at the gate.

It pulsed gently, like it was breathing.

Like it was waiting.

Her mother turned to her, eyes full of love. “It’s time.”

Kotomi didn’t move.

She looked down at her hand — still clasped in her mother’s — and then back at the gate. Her heart ached. Not from the wound. From something deeper.

“I…” Her voice cracked. “I want to stay. I want to be with you.”

Kotori nodded. “I know.”

“But…” Kotomi’s throat tightened. “Kyle’s still down there. He’s hurting. He’s—he’s losing himself.”

Kotori’s smile faltered. “You can’t save everyone, sweetie.”

“I’m not trying to save everyone,” Kotomi said. “Just him.”

Her mother’s grip loosened as she pulled her hand away.