The sound of Lana's retreating footsteps was a melody fading into the symphony of the school's background noise, a sweet, persistent rhythm in the cavern of his mind. Robert turned the corner, the ghost of her smile imprinted on his vision, a soft-focus filter applied to the mundane world. The harsh, fluorescent lights of the Smallville High hallway seemed to burn a little less fiercely, their glare diffused by the strange, unaccustomed lightness in his chest. It was a feeling so foreign he could almost taste it—like the first bite of a fruit from a world he'd only ever read about, both thrilling and terrifying in its newness. He traced the scuff marks on the linoleum with his eyes, each one a testament to a life being lived, a life he was now, finally, stepping into fully.
He was so immersed in this novel sensation, the simple, human thrill of anticipation for a tomorrow that held a movie and a girl's company, that the change, when it came, was not so much an event as an absolute, unarguable revision of reality.
One moment, his fingers were reaching for the cool, brushed metal of the classroom door handle, the final, mundane action of a mundane school day.
The next, everything… ceased.
It was not a pause. It was a cessation, a fundamental stripping away of a universal constant. The murmur of voices from behind the door—a droning lecture on American history—was snipped from existence. The distant, percussive slam of a locker door was swallowed by a silence so profound it pressed against his eardrums like deep ocean pressure. The very hum of the electricity in the walls, a sound he was never consciously aware of until it was gone, vanished. He turned his head, a slow, disbelieving motion, and saw the world had become a museum diorama. Students were frozen in mid-stride, their faces captured in expressions of boredom, laughter, or whispered gossip, now rendered eternal and silent. He saw a single dust mote, caught in a sunbeam that slanted through the high windows, hanging motionless in the air, a tiny speck of captured eternity. This was not time stopped; this was time being politely, but firmly, dismissed.
A blink. A reflexive, human response to the impossible, a futile attempt to clear a vision that would not be cleared.
And the world was gone.
Smallville High did not fade or shatter into fragments of light. It was simply… invalidated. The scuffed linoleum, the faded posters advertising a upcoming basketball game, the distinct scent of industrial cleaner and adolescent anxiety—all of it was rewritten in the space between one heartbeat and the next. There was no disorienting rush, no sensory overload. It was a seamless, silent transition from one state of being to another.
He stood now in a place of profound and beautiful nothingness.
Underfoot was a surface of dark, polished obsidian that seemed to drink the light, yet reflected a soft, internal luminescence from within its depths. It was neither solid nor void, but something in between, a path through eternity that felt both firm and insubstantial beneath his feet. Above was a sky without stars, without a sun, without any celestial body to give it scale or meaning. It was a canvas of deep, velvety twilight, a color that was less a visual experience and more an emotional one—the color of quiet, of rest, of the universe holding its breath. The air was still and cool, carrying a scent he knew on a level deeper than memory: the fragrance of old parchment and forgotten roses, of quiet rain on ancient stone, of the final, peaceful exhalation at the end of a long and weary journey.
And she was there.
She stood before him, and the sight of her unraveled something fundamental within him. She was not merely a woman; she was an atmosphere, a concept given form. Her hair was the true color of midnight, not merely an absence of light, but a presence of a deeper darkness, one that seemed alive with the faint, gentle glow of distant, sleeping nebulae. It cascaded around shoulders draped in simple, dark garments that flowed like settled night, whispering of endings and the soft peace that follows. But it was her face, her aura, that captivated and terrified him in equal measure. It was a face of impossible grace and ageless beauty, mature and infinitely kind, holding a love so vast and unconditional that it dwarfed every concept of affection he had ever known. She looked at him not as a curiosity, not as a powerful alien entity, but as a mother looks upon her child. Her eyes, deep and knowing pools of ancient compassion, held the silent stories of every soul that had ever been and ever would be. And in their depths, he saw his own reflection—small, finite, fragile, and completely, utterly seen.
Recognition struck him not as a thought, but as a physical blow, a seismic shift in the very core of his being. It was not knowledge learned from a comic book page; it was a primal, cellular understanding, a truth etched into his soul before it was ever placed in this body. This was Death. Not the grim reaper of folklore, not a monstrous specter from a nightmare, but one of the Endless. The curator of life's final, quiet moment, the gentle hand that guides all things to their rest.
His pupils shrank to pinpoints. A cold, primal fear, the kind that predates thought and language, the fear of the unknown end, lanced through him. This was it. The other shoe had dropped. His second chance was being revoked. The Kansas sun, Jonathan's strong, calloused hand on his shoulder, Martha's voice humming in the kitchen, Clark's brotherly rivalry, Lana's smile—it had all been a cruel, fleeting dream, and now the dreamer was awake.
A soft sound, like the chime of a crystal bell in a far-off temple, was her laughter. It held no malice, no glee at his terror, only a boundless, bottomless compassion that seemed to well up from the heart of the cosmos itself.
"Son," her voice was a melody that did not travel through the air but resonated directly in the hollow spaces of his soul, a sound that promised rest, understanding, and an end to all striving. "You don't have to be afraid. You never have to be afraid of me."
She moved toward him, and the universe acquiesced to her desire. The infinite, conceptual distance between them collapsed without her taking a seeming step. The physics of location were merely a suggestion she chose not to follow. She was simply there, before him, and then she was gathering him into her arms.
She pulled him into her bosom.
All resistance, all fear, melted away. It was not a choice; it was a natural law. To be held by Death was to understand the true, liberating meaning of surrender. He was enveloped, not just by her arms, but by her very essence. His face was pressed against the cool, smooth fabric of her dress, and he inhaled a scent that was uniquely, fundamentally hers: the fragrance of forgotten flowers pressed between the pages of a beloved family bible, of deep, still earth after a long winter's thaw, of absolute and final peace. It was the sweetest thing he had ever smelled, because it was the scent of coming home, of all struggles being permitted to end.
"My baby," she murmured, her voice a soft vibration against his ear. Her hand, cool as ancient marble, came up to cradle the back of his head, her fingers gently carding through his gray hair with a tenderness that spoke of eons of practice. "I know. I know how you have been. I have watched you throughout the life you have lived. I felt the profound loneliness of the boy in the convenience store, the hollow echo of a life lived through screens, the sheer, desperate hope in his final moment. And I felt the seismic shift of your gratitude in the crib, the fierce, burning, protective love that ignited in your heart for the two humans who took you in without question. I have felt every beat of your heart in this new life, every quiet joy, every secret triumph."
His mind, usually a fortress of controlled power, intricate analysis, and strategic thought, grew still and calm within her embrace. The frantic, circular questions about the cosmic being who had sent him here—the deep-seated fear that his most fundamental, universe-breaking secret was exposed—quieted, their sharp edges smoothed away by her pervasive serenity. Of course, she was kind. He had always known that, in some deep, forgotten part of his soul that remembered the rules of existence before he was ever Ken or Robert. He believed it now with every fiber of his being. And he knew, with a sudden, absolute certainty that felt like a cornerstone being laid in his soul, that the entity that had granted his wish operated on a plane of existence even beyond the purview of the Endless. That memory, that specific transaction, was veiled, a private contract between him and the raw mechanics of the multiverse. She saw his life, his pain, his joy, but the architect of his second dawn remained a shadow in her ledger, a footnote written in a language she could not read. She knew the story intimately, but the author remained anonymous.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he pulled his face from the heavenly comfort of her embrace. A hot flush of embarrassment crept up his neck, warming his cheeks. The immense power he wielded, the confidence he'd mustered with Lana mere moments ago—it all felt like a child playing dress-up before her ancient, knowing eyes. He felt stripped bare, not of his power, but of his pretenses.
"Do you…" he began, his voice a raspy, vulnerable thing that seemed too small for this immense silence. "Do you know everything? About… me? Where I… came from?"
She smiled, and it was like watching a galaxy being born in slow motion, a silent, glorious unfolding of light and warmth. "I have known you from the moment you began here, little one. From your first breath in that farmhouse, nestled beside your brother. I was the first to welcome you to this reality." She raised her hand and cupped his cheek, her thumb stroking his skin with an infinite tenderness that could gentle supernovas. "And from now on," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument, yet filled only with love, "you will call me Mother."
The word hung between them, immense and terrifying in its implication. It was a title, a bond, a rewriting of his personal cosmos as fundamental as the wish that had brought him here.
She saw the hesitation, the flicker of fear and confusion in his eyes. "The secret of your origin is safe with me," she assured him, her voice a soft, unbreakable vow. "When your soul was woven into this universe's tapestry, the thread began with me. I covered the seams of your arrival. I have been the silent guardian of your peace, the unseen hand that ensured your integration was smooth, that no… irregularities… would draw unwanted attention." Her smile then took on a mischievous, almost girlish quality, a startling and delightful contrast to her cosmic gravitas. "And I must confess, I have quite enjoyed the… media. Through your memories. Your 'anime'. Your 'comics'. The one with the determined rubber boy on his ship is particularly entertaining. Such delightful, stubborn hope. And the tragic tale of the swordsman seeking redemption… so beautifully human."
Robert's brain stuttered to a complete halt. Death… is a One Piece fan? She's read Vagabond? The cosmic absurdity of it was so staggering, so perfectly juxtaposed against the terrifying majesty of the moment, that it momentarily eclipsed his terror, leaving him with a sense of bewildered wonder.
"Do I…" he swallowed, the word feeling like a boulder in his throat. "Do I really have to call you Mother?"
She drew back slightly, and her lower lip protruded in a genuine, world-halting pout. The personification of a fundamental cosmic force, the end of all stories, was pouting at him. The sight was so disarmingly human it was more convincing than any display of power could ever be. "If you don't call me Mother," she said, her voice dripping with a theatrical, universe-ending sadness that he somehow knew was only half-feigned, "then I shall be so very, very sad. You wouldn't want that, would you? To make your Mother sad?"
He was utterly, completely defeated. How could anyone, mortal or god, refuse her? The being who held the final key to every existence, who had welcomed every soul since the first dawn, was looking at him with the pleading, hopeful eyes of a child wanting a story before bed. The power dynamics were incomprehensible, and in the face of her simple, profound desire for a familial bond, all his defenses crumbled to dust.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, surrendering to the wonderful, terrifying new reality of his existence. It was a leap of faith greater than any he had taken before, greater even than accepting the Sentry's power.
"Okay…" he whispered, the word a fragile, fledgling thing in the immense quiet.
Her entire being seemed to lean forward, glowing with an anticipation that made the soft light of the void seem to brighten around them.
"...Mother."
The sound that erupted from her was a pure, unadulterated "Kyaaa!" of joy, a sound of such perfect, unblemished happiness that it would have shattered the laws of physics had she not been their author. She surged forward, gathering him up in an embrace even tighter and more encompassing than before, spinning them both in a slow, graceful, weightless circle in the timeless void. Her laughter was like the ringing of a billion crystal bells celebrating a new dawn, a symphony of pure, maternal love that echoed through the endless night.
"My son!" she cheered, her voice ringing with a triumph that felt ancient and new all at once. "My beautiful, strong, clever son! I have so many things to show you! So many stories to tell!"
And held in the loving, absolute, and awe-inspiring embrace of Death herself, Robert Kent, the reincarnated otaku, the Sentry, the brother, the boyfriend, finally understood a new, profound layer of his existence. He had a family on a Kansas farm that had taught him about love, hard work, and the quiet dignity of a simple life. And now, he had a Mother, who was the universe itself, who had taught him, in a single embrace, that endings are not to be feared, but are a part of the love that makes life precious. His simple life was now infinitely more complex, woven with threads of cosmic destiny, and yet, it felt infinitely more sacred, and infinitely more protected. He was not just a visitor in this universe anymore. He was a son, welcomed home.
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[How was my surprise 😅]
[Give me the stone so that i can win the first spot and give me some more review😅]👋