The roar of the engines faded into a low, rhythmic hum as the aircraft descended through a thick veil of silver clouds. Outside the window, the world was a study in monochrome.
There were no bright neon lights of Tokyo or the soft pink hues of Tomoeda's cherry blossoms. Instead, there was London—a vast, sprawling maze of slate-grey roofs, ancient stone, and the dark, winding ribbon of the Thames.
Tomoyo Daidouji leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Her reflection looked back at her, eyes tired but sharp. For thirteen hours, she had been a woman suspended between two lives. Now, as the wheels of the Boeing 777 hit the rain-slicked runway of Heathrow with a definitive, heavy thud, the suspension was over.
Finally she was here. As the plane taxied toward the gate, Tomoyo felt a sudden, sharp pang of loneliness. In Japan, her arrival was always a choreographed event—bodyguards, black sedans, and the respectful bows of her mother's staff. Here, she was just another passenger in seat 12A.
She stood up, smoothing her lavender coat, and reached for her carry-on bag. She moved with a practiced grace, her heels clicking on the linoleum floor of the terminal, each step a heartbeat closer to a reunion she had imagined for months.
The immigration hall was a sea of languages. Tomoyo waited in line, her passport clutched in her hand. When the officer asked for the purpose of her visit, she didn't say "to help a friend" or "to film a miracle." She said, "To study music." The words felt heavy and real.
After retrieving her large lavender suitcases—which looked far too bright and cheerful for the gloom of the baggage claim—she pushed her cart toward the arrivals gate. The sliding glass doors hissed open, and a wall of noise and cold air hit her.
On the other side of the barrier, Eriol Hiiragizawa was a statue of patience. He leaned against a marble pillar, his charcoal-grey wool coat buttoned against the draft. To anyone else, he looked like a young, successful academic—perhaps a researcher or a doctoral student. But behind his spectacles, his eyes held the depth of centuries.
He had been waiting for forty-five minutes. In his inner pocket, Spinel Sun was grumbling. "The flight landed nearly an hour ago, Eriol. Perhaps she took a taxi. Or perhaps she was abducted by a very polite English ghost."
"Patience, Suppi," Eriol whispered, his gaze never leaving the gate. "Tomoyo-san does not rush. She observes. She is likely taking in the architecture of the terminal as we speak."
Eriol felt a strange, unfamiliar tightness in his chest. For years, he had lived in London as a ghost of himself, a man who had traded cosmic power for the quiet thrill of ancient manuscripts.
He had grown used to the solitude, the dust of the British Museum, and the predictable energy of Nakuru. But the prospect of Tomoyo's arrival had disturbed the equilibrium of his life.
He remembered her as the bright beautiful girl with the camera, the one who saw everything but asked for nothing. In his letters, he had sensed her growing restlessness, the quiet yearning to find a voice that didn't belong to the Cardcaptor's legend.
He had invited her to London not just as a host, but as a witness. He wanted to see who she would become when she was no longer a shadow.
Then, the doors opened again, and the air in the terminal seemed to shift. It wasn't magic, but it felt like a change in frequency.
Tomoyo emerged from the crowd. She was even more radiant than he remembered. Her lavender coat was a defiant splash of color against the grey airport carpet.
She looked older, her face holding a new, sophisticated elegance, yet she still carried that aura of gentle kindness that had always been her greatest strength. When her light violet eyes finally found his, the world seemed to shrink until there was only the two of them.
She smiled—a radiant, genuine expression that made Eriol realize, with a sudden jolt, just how grey his life in London had been until this second.
"Eriol-kun," she said as she reached him. Her voice was a soft melody that cut through the airport din.
"Welcome to London, Tomoyo-san," Eriol replied. He stepped forward, his movements fluid and precise, and took the handles of her luggage cart. "I apologize for the weather. It seems the city is feeling shy today."
"I think it's perfect," she said, her voice trembling slightly with emotion. "It smells like... history."
The parking garage was cold and damp, but inside Eriol's car, it was warm and smelled of leather and old books. As they pulled out of the airport and onto the M4 motorway, the London rain began to fall in earnest. It was a soft, persistent drizzle that turned the city into a watercolor painting.
Tomoyo sat in the passenger seat, her eyes fixed on the landscape. "It's so much more crowded than I expected," she noted, watching the red buses and the black cabs weave through traffic.
"London is a city that never stops trying to prove it exists," Eriol remarked, his hands steady on the steering wheel. "It is a heavy city, Tomoyo-san. It is built on layers of stone and memory. It can be difficult to breathe here if you are looking for the lightness of Tomoeda."
"I'm not looking for lightness anymore, Eriol-kun," she replied, her reflection in the window looking back at her with newfound determination. "I'm looking for something... solid."
A small, dark blue head popped up from the center console. "If you wanted something solid, you should have stayed in Japan," Spinel Sun grumbled. "London is mostly made of damp bricks and broken promises."
Tomoyo laughed, reaching out to scratch the guardian behind his ears. "Suppi-chan! I've missed your cheerful personality."
"I am merely being realistic," Spinel huffed, though he leaned into her touch. "I trust your mother sent some of those high-grade tea leaves? The ones Eriol buys are practically sawdust."
"I brought a whole crate, Suppi-chan. Enough to keep you happy for months."
Eriol watched them through the rearview mirror, a ghost of a smile on his face. He noticed how Tomoyo didn't reach for her camera bag. In the past, she would have already been filming Suppi's grumpy expressions. Now, she was simply present, her hands resting in her lap, her attention focused on the conversation.
"You've changed, Tomoyo-san," Eriol said softly as they passed the massive, ivy-covered walls of a forgotten cemetery.
"Is that a good thing?" she asked, her gaze meeting his.
"It is a necessary thing," he replied. "We are all different people than we were in Tomoeda. Back then, we were players in a game we didn't fully understand. Now, the game is over, and we have to figure out what to do with the pieces."
As they entered Kensington, the architecture grew more grand and imposing. Rows of white-stucco houses with black iron railings stood like silent sentinels. The fog was rolling in from the Thames, wrapping the streetlights in golden halos.
"Is it hard for you?" Tomoyo asked, her voice quiet. "Living as a regular person? I saw how you were at the airport. You didn't use any charms to clear the traffic or find a parking spot. You just waited like other person."
Eriol slowed the car as a group of pedestrians crossed the street. "At first, it was frustrating. Magic is a shortcut, Tomoyo-san. It is a way to bypass the struggle of being human.
But shortcuts make for a very short story. I've found that there is a certain... dignity in the wait. When you earn something through time and effort, it belongs to you in a way that magic can never replicate."
He looked at her, his eyes serious behind his glasses. "I want you to feel that too. Here, at the Royal College of Music, no one will know about the Star Cards or the Moon Bell.
They will only know your voice. And when you succeed—and you will—it will be because of your own breath and your own heart."
Tomoyo felt a lump in her throat. She had spent her life being the observer of greatness. To hear Eriol, the most powerful mind she had ever known, speak of her potential with such conviction was overwhelming.
"I'm afraid, Eriol-kun," she whispered. "What if I'm just a hollow shell without the magic around me?"
"A hollow shell cannot sing the way you do," Eriol said firmly. "Music isn't magic, Tomoyo-san. It is something much older and much deeper. Magic manipulates the world, but music changes the person. You are not a shell. You are a melody that hasn't found its rhythm yet."
The car turned into a quiet, tree-lined crescent. The houses here were even larger, with deep gardens and tall, narrow windows. Eriol pulled to a stop in front of a magnificent Victorian house. It was a fortress of red brick and white stone, its roof lost in the evening mist. Ivy climbed the walls like a living, green muscle.
"We're here," Eriol announced.
The engine died, and for a moment, the car was filled with a heavy, expectant silence. The rain tapped a soft, rhythmic code on the roof. Tomoyo looked at the house. This was the place where she would sleep, where she would practice, and where she would finally discover who she was.
"Woahhh... It's beautiful," she said, her voice filled with wonder.
"It's old, and the pipes rattle, and there are far too many stairs," Eriol said, though his voice held a note of affection. "But it is a place where secrets are respected. And I think you'll find the East Wing very much to your liking."
He stepped out of the car, the cold London air rushing in. Tomoyo followed, her lavender suitcase rattling on the pavement as he pulled it from the trunk. The rain was light now, a fine mist that clung to her hair like tiny diamonds.
She stood at the gate, looking up at the house. She felt the weight of Japan and Tomoeda falling away, replaced by the cool, damp weight of London. She wasn't just Sakura's best friend anymore. She wasn't the girl behind the camera.