There she stood, adrift in the middle of an infinite void. Silence blanketed the space like a final breath, weightless and hollow, as though she had stumbled upon the end of her story. The darkness stretched endlessly, broken only by the presence of a luminous sphere before her—within it, the sleeping form of a boy, radiant and pale as untouched snow, his entire body outlined by sharp, dancing threads of light.
"Where…" she began, but the question withered before it could take form. Instead, she clutched her left forearm, grounding herself against the surreal stillness. That's when the voice came—calm, familiar, yet unbound by flesh. It resonated, soft yet undeniable, as though it echoed from within her very soul.
"This is your cognition," the voice said. "A realm that exists deep within the core of your heart. Surely, you recognize it, don't you, Chiaki? Tell me if I'm wrong."
She knew that voice. It couldn't be anyone else—it was Temoshí. But it didn't carry the warmth of his presence. It was more… ethereal, as though it was part of her rather than beside her.
"A place inside my heart…? Then why are you here?" she asked, bitterness edging her tone as she lifted her gaze toward the void. "Didn't I say I wanted to be left alone—to make my own choices without anyone stepping in?"
The voice answered without pause, yet there was no judgment in its tone—only a quiet understanding that clung to the emptiness like a heartbeat beneath silence.
"I'm here because… even if you refuse to admit it, even if your pride won't let you speak it aloud… deep down, you still want to be close to me."
But this wasn't the real Temoshí. Chiaki could feel it—there was no body, no warmth, no physical presence. Just a tethered echo of him, a piece of his soul etched into her own. It wasn't memory. It was him, and yet… not him. A lingering resonance carried deep within her heart, pulled forward by the collapse of her strength.
Chiaki's breath caught in her throat. The words didn't echo—they rang. Clear. Direct. Uncompromising.
"You pushed me away. You told yourself it was the right thing. That you had to be alone. That no one else should carry your burden. But this place… your heart… it doesn't lie the way you try to. And I never left it, no matter how far you ran."
His voice softened, but its presence wrapped around her like a tether—gentle, yet impossible to break.
"You wanted to be strong on your own. I get that. But strength doesn't mean silence. It doesn't mean loneliness. You don't have to throw everything away just to prove you can walk forward."
Chiaki's fists tightened at her sides, nails digging into her palms. Her voice trembled—not from fear, but from the weight of what she'd been holding back.
"Then why does it still hurt… when I think about what I did? Why do I feel like I abandoned everything… even you?"
The light in front of her pulsed—steady, unwavering.
"Because you care. And no matter how far you go, I'll be here… as long as you still want me to be."
Chiaki stood there, unmoving, staring at the orb that shimmered like a sleeping star—glowing softly in the color of snow, threads of white light swirling slowly as if it breathed with her. Her arms hung heavy at her sides, and for a moment, she forgot about the pain, the battlefield, the mission… all of it. She was just a girl in the dark. Facing a voice that came from a soul that never left her.
"You say you're still here," she whispered, her voice hoarse, cracking. "But where were you when I needed someone to tell me I wasn't making a mistake? Where were you when I… when I thought I was losing myself?"
The soul's glow pulsed faintly. Not in rebuttal—just in quiet acceptance.
"I was there," it answered, voice gentle, like a thought just barely spoken aloud. "I was there when you looked at your hands and wondered if they were worth holding onto. I was there when you stared at the sea that night, asking if it'd be easier to disappear. I felt every ache you buried, Chiaki. But I couldn't speak… because you were too afraid to listen."
Her breath shuddered. She lowered her head. Tears trembled at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away, pressing her lips together like she could trap the emotions behind her teeth. She couldn't. Not anymore.
"I didn't want to need anyone," she confessed. "Because everyone who's ever gotten close to me… they either left, or they ended up hurt. So I thought if I pushed you all away, at least no one would have to suffer because of me. At least I'd be the only one bleeding."
The sphere of light shifted, drifting a little closer. Not imposing. Not overwhelming. Just close enough to remind her she wasn't alone.
"Is that really what you think?" the voice asked, its calm layered with sorrow. "That the people who love you would rather watch you die alone than stand beside you and take the pain with you?"
Chiaki shook her head slowly, her lips parting but no words coming out at first. Her voice was soft when she finally replied.
"No… But it's easier to believe that than to risk losing them."
A silence passed. Long and heavy.
Then, Temoshí's soul—this imprint of him inside her—spoke with something firmer now, something that carried the weight of his spirit even in this strange space.
"You didn't lose me, Chiaki. I'm still here… and not just in your heart. Out there, I'm still fighting. Still waiting. You don't have to do this alone. You never did."
She finally lifted her head. Her eyes met the sphere—there were no eyes looking back, but she could feel them. She could feel him.
"I don't know who I really am," she admitted. "Not Yasuda. Not Tomomi. Not even Chiaki. I'm just... someone trying to make sense of it all."
"And that's okay," the voice said gently. "You don't have to know everything now. You just have to believe in the steps you take. One at a time. You're more than the name they gave you. More than the pain you carry. You're you… and that's enough for now."
Chiaki's eyes burned again. But this time, she didn't fight the tears.
"Then stay," she whispered, stepping closer. "I don't want to be alone anymore."
"I never left," he answered.
And the void wasn't so dark anymore.
The light pulsed gently, its soft glow casting faint waves across the endless dark. Chiaki stood with her arms lightly trembling at her sides, the rawness in her eyes revealing just how close she stood to breaking. Yet the soul—Temoshí's soul—remained calm, not soothing her with false comfort, but allowing her the space to breathe her own truth.
"You've been asking yourself what you are," the voice murmured, resonant and close even though the light never moved beyond a small drift. "Not just your name. But what lies beneath it. A test subject? A mistake? A burden to those who cared?"
Chiaki's head lowered. Not to nod—but because every one of those words had echoed in her mind for far too long. She had asked them to herself over and over, until they no longer felt like questions but facts etched into her very skin.
"I thought I was a lie," she whispered. "Every smile I gave. Every moment of peace. I thought it didn't belong to me. That maybe someone else—someone human—should've lived that life."
"But you are human," the soul said, steady and unwavering. "You feel fear. You feel pain. You doubt yourself. You grieve. You love. And even now, when everything has broken you apart… you still choose to move forward. That isn't something artificial. That's you, Chiaki. That's who you are."
She looked up slowly, her eyes wide and rimmed with emotion, lips trembling—not from sadness, but from the overwhelming relief of hearing what she needed most, from the one voice she trusted more than her own.
"Then… what is it I'm meant to do?" she asked. "What am I, if not a weapon? If not someone meant to just survive experiments or follow the bloodline I never asked for?"
"You're someone who was never meant to follow," the voice replied. "You were always meant to choose. And every moment you thought was weakness—when you ran, when you doubted, when you cried—those were all parts of you refusing to let the world decide your life."
Chiaki took a small step forward, her fists clenching softly at her sides.
"My choice," she whispered.
"Yes," the soul answered. "But you don't have to carry every choice alone."
She froze.
"I know why you pushed us away. Why you ran ahead. You thought you had to bear everything or it wouldn't count. That if you didn't suffer through it by yourself, it wouldn't be your victory. But even choices made by your own hand… don't have to be walked alone. It's not weakness to lean on those who care. It's strength to let them walk beside you."
Chiaki's eyes stung. Her throat tightened as she blinked the tears back.
"I… didn't want to be saved again," she said, almost voiceless. "I wanted to prove I wasn't a burden anymore."
"And you aren't," the soul replied. "But don't forget… some people walk beside you not because you need them. But because they want to. Just like you would for them."
The light pulsed brighter. Just a flicker. But enough to make her raise her head fully, shoulders square again.
"I don't know what I'll become," she admitted. "But I'll decide it. Even if the path burns, even if I'm alone at first… it'll be because I chose it. And next time, maybe… I'll let someone choose to walk with me."
A warmth filled the void, barely visible—but it pressed into her chest, not heavy, but real. A resonance.
The voice grew quiet. Almost soft enough to fade.
"Then go. That belief… it's stronger than any power they gave you. It's yours."
Chiaki closed her eyes. And when she opened them, the void around her was gone.
Chiaki's breath steadied, her eyes still fixed on the soft, glowing presence before her—the one that carried his voice. Not his body. Not his strength. Just his soul, speaking in calm echoes through the stillness of her own heart.
But even with that warmth flickering in her chest, something remained unspoken.
"…Then tell me," she said quietly, her voice rough and hesitant, "what do you think love is?"
The light pulsed once—gentle and reflective, as if the question itself stirred something deep within.
There was a pause. Not one of hesitation, but of care. As if the soul wanted to choose every word carefully—not to impress her, but to speak only truth.
"Love," the voice finally began, "is the one thing I could never explain until I saw someone fall apart right in front of me… and still chose to stay."
Chiaki didn't speak. Her eyes shimmered faintly, drawn in by every word.
"It's not perfection. It's not being strong for someone. It's not fixing them or carrying their pain for them. Love is when you stay even when it's easier to leave. It's when their scars don't scare you. It's when their silence says more than their words, and you still understand them."
A faint shimmer crossed the light, like a memory surfacing within it.
"Love is quiet. Not loud like a battle cry. It's in the little things—knowing how someone breathes when they're scared, the way they pretend to smile when they're hurting, how they always look away before they speak what really matters. It's in knowing all of that… and not walking away."
Chiaki's lips parted slightly, her eyes wide. Her throat tightened—not because she didn't understand, but because every part of her did.
"I think I…" she began, but the words stopped.
The soul continued gently.
"I don't care if the world saw you as broken, or dangerous, or lost. I only ever saw the girl who kept walking forward even when everything told her to stop. That's the one I wanted to follow. That's the one I chose to believe in."
A soft pulse of warmth touched her chest again.
"Love isn't something you're born knowing how to give. It's something you learn through every moment you stay when you could've turned away. And Chiaki… you've stayed. Even now."
Silence returned—but not the cold kind.
It was full, wrapped around them like a moment that didn't need anything else.
Chiaki stood there, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. But there was peace in her eyes now. A heavy, aching peace—but one she finally chose to hold.
"…Then maybe," she whispered, "I've been carrying love all along."
The soul pulsed once more—quiet, proud.
"Yes. And someday, someone will carry it with you."
The glow before her softened—no longer just a presence, but something that reached her deeper than words. It pulsed once, slow and warm, like a heartbeat syncing with her own.
"Then let me tell you something else," the soul continued, his voice lower now, steady with unshaken certainty. "The fact that you can feel love at all… is proof you're not some experiment. You're not a product of someone's twisted design. You're not a weapon built for control."
Chiaki's breath caught in her throat.
"Because love," he said, "isn't something that can be forged in labs, or forced into data. It's not programmable. Not predictable. It's messy. Scary. It makes you vulnerable. But it's real. It's human."
He paused for a heartbeat, letting the truth settle over her.
"You love. You care. You cry. You doubt. You fight even when you're terrified. You walk forward even when your knees shake. That… all of that… makes you human. And no title—no chain, no bloodline, no past—can ever change that."
The sphere of light glowed brighter now, like it was responding to something inside her.
"So if anyone dares to call you a mistake… a failure… a tool to be thrown away—then they never understood what it means to be alive."
Chiaki blinked, tears quietly slipping from the corners of her eyes as she lowered her head, shoulders trembling, lips pressed into a quivering line. She wasn't sobbing. It wasn't collapse. It was release—like the slow unwinding of a weight she never knew she'd been dragging for years.
The light pulsed faintly again, like a breath drawn in stillness, wrapping her in a warmth deeper than any fire could offer. The voice—his voice—spoke once more, gentle, unwavering.
"One day… you'll understand everything."
Chiaki lifted her gaze, eyes still glistening, heart held between belief and fear.
"You'll learn why things happened the way they did. Why the world tried to shape you into something you never were. You'll uncover every piece of yourself—slowly, painfully maybe, but truthfully. And when that day comes, when you finally see all the broken parts, all the unanswered questions, all the pain you thought was meaningless…"
The soul's glow grew just a little stronger, as if to keep her steady.
"You won't be afraid of them anymore. Because you'll know who you are. Not what they told you to be. Not what they made you believe you were."
He paused, voice a whisper now, close to her core.
"You'll stand tall. And you'll be free—not because someone saved you. But because you chose to become whole."
To be continued...