Kafka's gaze sharpened as he studied his mother. She was clearly lost in her own turmoil, her eyes flickering with fear and reluctance, but he refused to let her escape.
"I have plenty of questions." He said, every word careful, his tone carrying the kind of gravity that admitted no retreat. "There are countless things I want to ask you. But there's one question that has haunted me since childhood, one question that's never left my mind. Even now, standing here in front of you, it claws at me louder than anything else."
Vanitas felt her throat tighten, while Kafka drew in a slow breath, as though he were physically dragging the words from the core of himself.
"Why?" His gaze sharpened. "Why did you abandon me?"
Vanitas's eyes widened, the color draining from her face. She had expected many things, accusations, perhaps questions about power or heaven, but not this, not so soon.
