The sky was overcast, heavy with low, churning clouds. They had found a clearing ringed with pale trees — still living, but hushed as if holding breath. The branded girl knelt in the dirt, tracing slow spirals with a stick. She said nothing, as usual. Aeon sat nearby, resting with closed eyes. Guts cleaned his blade in silence.
The world felt distant.
Until the girl began to draw.
It started as an arch — simple, curving, framed with towers. Then a jagged wall. A collapsed courtyard. The bent skeleton of a playground. Children's swings, warped by heat. A small dome beside the ruins — cracked, but still standing.
Guts glanced over.
"What is that?"
The girl didn't look up.
"I don't know," she said softly. "But it's where she died."
Guts frowned. "Who?"
"The girl," she whispered. "The one I dream of."
Aeon's eyes opened.
He stood.
Walked forward slowly.
Then stopped cold.
The drawing was perfect.
Too perfect.
He had seen it once — not in this life, not in this world — but through a window shattering from shockwaves. The moment the sky turned red. The final time he held his daughter's hand before everything became fire.
The girl's voice was quiet. "She was holding a stuffed bird. Her papa was supposed to come. But he didn't."
Aeon knelt, slowly.
"How do you know this?"
"I dream it. Not every night. But when you're quiet like this." She looked up at him, eyes wide. "She misses you."
Aeon's throat tightened.
"She told me her name was Liora," the girl whispered.
Aeon recoiled.
That name had never passed his lips. Not in this world. Not in any.
Guts said nothing.
He watched, eyes dark, but not judging.
Aeon turned away.
Walked to the edge of the clearing.
Sat down with his back to the trees, hands resting on his knees.
He stared into the branches, but didn't see them.
He saw the flash of light.
The scream that was cut off.
The way silence fell like snow after the blast.
He hadn't been able to reach her. Not in time.
"I created a thousand worlds," he murmured, "just to give her one more moment."
Behind him, the girl kept drawing.
She added stars above the ruined dome.
Then a small figure — a man kneeling beside a child.
One hand outstretched.
No face.
Only light.
That night, Aeon didn't sleep.
He stood beneath the trees as the girl hummed a lullaby only one child had ever sung to him.
He didn't stop her.
He just listened.
And wept without tears.