I stared at the homunculus that supposedly held his lover's soul.
Suspended inside a transparent, cylindrical tank, she floated with a stillness that made her look more like a beautiful, handcrafted doll than a living being.
Yet she was alive — breathing faintly, chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm, eyelashes trembling ever so slightly in the liquid.
Carefully, I stepped between scattered notes, shattered equipment, and the countless traps he'd left behind. I made sure not to touch anything I didn't understand — which was almost everything.
Up close, she looked even more human. Too human.
There was an old saying about the soul:
When a person dies, one part ascends to the heavens, while the other sinks into the earth.
A split soul.
A divided afterlife.
Simply put — the part that ascends carries no memories. No past. No sense of self.
And what he had retrieved, after abandoning everything he believed in…
…was not her.
She had her face. Her voice. Her soul.
