When María stepped out of Kiyomi Shirogane's apartment building, the world outside greeted her with a heavy, almost suffocating silence one of those deep, hollow stillnesses that seemed to acknowledge the invisible weight a person carried inside. The cool night air slid over her skin like a thin sheet of frost, brushing past her cheeks, her arms, and the delicate curve of her collarbone. It whispered along the fabric of her clothes, as if trying to peel away the remnants of divine judgment still clinging to her. María paused on the quiet sidewalk, letting the cold seep in, grounding herself in the human world once more.
With her hands gently clasped before her chest, eyes closed in her usual serene expression, she whispered a soft prayer one spoken not from regret, nor apology, nor doubt, but from a deeper, quieter place inside her, a place woven from care and sorrow. "Que la pequeña encuentre paz…" she murmured, her breath forming a ghostly cloud before fading into the night. "And may she never again feel the world turn against her so cruelly." Her prayer wasn't for Kiyomi, nor was it for herself. It was for Eri the small, fragile heart now sleeping under María's protection. A heart that deserved gentleness, safety, and morning light without fear.
A sudden gust of cold wind swept down the street, stronger than before, slipping beneath the back of her top and making her shiver ever so slightly. It wasn't painful just sharp enough to tug her back fully into her new reality. The breeze felt like a boundary passing through her, separating the wrathful goddess she had been moments earlier from the gentle guardian she intended to be next. Without opening her eyes, María exhaled slowly, letting her magic answer the chill. Her clothing shimmered, threads unraveling into golden motes that drifted upward like fireflies rising toward the streetlamps. As the old outfit dissolved, a new garment bloomed into existence around her, forming in soft waves of fabric and color.
When the light dimmed, María stood wrapped in a long Aztec-rose kimono rich black and deep green fabric covered in intricate golden geometry, with large crimson roses blooming along the sleeves and hem. The garment draped gracefully off her shoulders, and the chest fold naturally parted to reveal the soft upper curve of her generous bust, framed elegantly rather than provocatively. The golden sash hugged her waist, drawing in the fabric just enough to accentuate her figure without restricting her movements. Her rainbow hair flowed down her back like living silk, brushing lightly against the roses printed on the kimono's surface.
She adjusted the neckline with a soft hum, her fingers brushing the warm fabric as if confirming that this new layer of herself was real. "Better," she whispered with a faint smile. She began walking down the narrow street, each step light, gentle, and unhurried. Late-night workers shuffled past her, faces buried in scarves or phones. A group of teenagers rode their bikes on the opposite sidewalk, laughing loudly as one nearly crashed into a lamppost. None of them stared at her. None whispered or bowed or pointed. She was just a strange foreigner in unusual clothing at an odd hour. And María preferred it that way. She didn't need reverence or recognition. She just wanted a moment of normalcy a moment where the world didn't feel heavy with divine judgment and childhood trauma.
The city carried its own rhythm even at night. Vending machines hummed softly, neon signs buzzed like tired insects, and the smell of convenience-store fried foods drifted faintly on the wind. María breathed in those simple human scents, letting them settle in her chest. This world messy, flawed, loud, and imperfect had something beautiful about it. A simple beauty. A human beauty.
Then she saw it: a small convenience store ahead, its flickering neon sign casting pale blues and reds onto the sidewalk. Its light cut through the shadows like a quiet beacon calling her forward. "Honey," María murmured, a gentle smile curving her lips. "Something sweet for mi cielito." She stepped through the automatic doors as they slid open with a chirp, and the fluorescent lights inside bathed her in an almost clinical brightness.
The clerk—a young Japanese man with dark circles under his eyes—looked up at her and instantly froze. He didn't faint or scream, but his breath hitched, and he went completely still, like a deer caught between instinct and disbelief. His hands hovered awkwardly above the counter's surface. "I—uh—w-welcome," he stuttered, voice cracking. María simply bowed her head politely and walked past him with a calm smile.
She drifted down the aisles like a gentle breeze, humming softly, examining each item as though it were part of a treasure trove. She lingered over sweet buns, carefully reading every label, comparing the pictures to imagine which one Eri might like best. She picked up warm milk, a tiny bunny-shaped candy box, a fruit jelly pack with glittery stars on the packaging, and a simple carton of strawberry yogurt. Each choice was made with care, tenderness, and the soft, warm glow of someone who finally had someone to care for.
Finally, she reached the honey section. Two brands sat side-by-side one cheap but artificial, the other more expensive but pure. María held both bottles in her hands, tilting her head one way and then the other, trying to imagine the taste Eri would enjoy more. "Which one would she like…?" she whispered, tapping her chin with her index finger. "Maybe I should get both...but then… how do I pay…?"
She froze.
She had no yen.
No wallet.
No human money at all.
She stared at the honey bottles, completely absorbed in her quiet dilemma.
Then—
The sliding doors flew open.
And crashed against the frame.
"EVERYBODY GET YOUR HANDS UP! THIS IS A ROBBERY!"
Shelves rattled.
The clerk yelped, hands shooting straight into the air as his entire body locked stiff with fear.
Three figures burst inside two men and one woman each with a distinct air of desperation and chaos that instantly shifted the atmosphere.
María didn't turn.
She gently placed the honey bottles back on the shelf.
The two men barked orders, their quirks flaring visibly. The first man had stone-like plates covering his arms and neck, his skin rough and jagged like hardened asphalt. The second man had long, jagged nails and twitchy movements reminiscent of a rodent. The clerk's eyes darted wildly between them, but he stayed standing, trembling violently with his hands raised as ordered.
The hardened-skin man scanned the aisles and stopped when he saw María standing in the back, her kimono flowing softly around her, her eyes still closed, her face calm and serene as if she were comparing cereal brands instead of being in a robbery.
He marched toward her, gun raised. "HEY! LADY IN THE COSTUME! DIDN'T YOU HEAR ME?! I SAID GET DOWN!"
María tilted her head gently, her smile still soft. "Ah… give me a moment, cariño. I'm deciding."
He fired without hesitation.
The bullet screamed through the air—
and María merely leaned her body an inch to the left, letting the projectile cut harmlessly through the space where she had been a moment before. It embedded itself in a shelf behind her, shaking the jars.
"What the—?!"
She sighed softly, her tone disappointed but not angry. "That was rude."
The rodent-mutant lunged at her with sharp claws, slashing in frantic, desperate arcs. María took one half-step back, letting him stumble past. Then another. And another. He couldn't touch her each attack missed by centimeters, her movements graceful and unhurried, like petals drifting on wind.
She flicked him on the chest.
He flew backward into a shelf of instant ramen, collapsing in a crumpled heap with noodles raining over him.
The hardened-skin man fired again
and María tilted her head to the other side, letting the bullet miss harmlessly before she stepped forward and tapped him on the elbow.
He flew through the front window in an explosion of glass, sliding across the pavement outside.
The clerk screamed but remained standing, hands shaking violently above his head.
María dusted off her kimono sleeve. "Honestly… I simply wanted some honey."
But then—
She felt the cold circle of a gun muzzle press against her lower back.
She didn't move.
Didn't open her eyes.
The tiger woman stood behind her tall, striped, ears trembling, tail stiff with fear. The gun wobbled in her shaking hands. Her breath came out in uneven gasps. Her eyes were desperate, exhausted, and full of misery not cruelty.
"P-Please…" she whispered, her voice quivering so violently it nearly broke. "Just let me leave… I-I don't want to hurt anyone. I just… I need the money. I need it. Please…"
María opened one eye, just slightly—enough to see her.
Then she heard it.
Not intentionally.
Not deeply.
Not prying.
Just a whisper of surface thoughts leaking in through her divine senses.
My children… they're hungry… I got fired again… landlord wants rent tomorrow… I don't want this… I'm not a bad person… Someone please… please help me…
María closed her eye again.
"This is not what you want your children to remember," she said softly, her voice gentle enough to calm storms.
The tiger woman's breath hitched. "Y-You don't know anything about me!"
"No," María replied. "But I hear you."
The woman's grip faltered. Angry tears spilled over, streaking down her cheeks. "People like me don't get second chances! Heroes look at me like I'm a criminal even when I'm doing nothing! I lost my job because the customers didn't want to be 'served by something with claws'! I've applied everywhere! Everyone rejects me! My babies cry themselves to sleep every night because they're hungry and I CAN'T— I CAN'T—"
Her voice cracked completely, her knees buckling as she dropped to the floor, sobbing so hard her body shook.
"I'm not a villain… I don't want to be a villain… I just wanted them to eat…"
María slowly turned, kneeling in front of her with the softness of a mother comforting a hurt child. She extended her hand and let her magic gather, gentle, warm, golden. The light pulsed in her palm, forming slowly, deliberately, shaping itself into something real: a heavy pouch overflowing with gold coins, each one glowing faintly with divine warmth.
The tiger woman stared at it, breath catching in her throat.
"W-Why…?" she choked. "Why would you… help me…?"
María offered the pouch with both hands, her smile tender and warm. "Because your children deserve a full stomach," she whispered. "And you deserve hope. Not shame."
The woman sobbed harder as María set the pouch gently into her shaking hands.
"Go home," María said softly. "Feed them. Hug them. Love them. And never come back to this path. You are not a criminal. Don't become one."
The tiger woman nodded violently, clutching the gold, tears dripping onto the pouch like rain. She set the gun on the floor, pushed herself to her feet, bowed deeply, and whispered, "T-Thank you… thank you so much…"
Then she fled into the night, her footsteps fading quickly.
María stood, turned to the clerk,who still stood frozen, hands up in the air, eyes wide as moons and smiled kindly.
"I'm ready to pay now," she said cheerfully. "Also, cariño, please call the police for the two men outside, but leave the woman out of it."
The clerk swallowed so hard his Adam's apple twitched. "Y-Yes… y-yes ma'am…"
María placed two gold coins on the counter more than enough to buy the entire store and gathered her groceries into her arms. With a final polite bow, she stepped back out into the quiet night, her kimono swaying behind her.
By the time María returned to the hidden forest home she had shaped from magic and gentle intention, the world had quieted into a calm, muffled stillness. The leaves rustled in soft hushing patterns above her, as if welcoming her back with the same tenderness a mother shows a child returning home late. The paper lanterns she had hung hours earlier glowed warmly along the entryway, casting pale amber light over the stone path. Inside, the air held a faint scent of honey and the lingering warmth of the fire spell she'd conjured before leaving. María slipped off her sandals, moving with almost ritual softness so as not to disturb Eri's sleep. She placed each of the groceries away carefully lining up the strawberry milk, the pastries, the mochi, the jelly candies, and the honey she had risked the robbery for.
She even set the little bunny keychain beside Eri's futon for morning. When she finally checked on the child, she found her sleeping soundly, tiny fingers curled around the blanket like a lifeline. Her chest rose and fell with small, steady breaths. María knelt beside her, brushing a stray strand of white hair from her forehead, and allowed herself a moment of pure stillness.
"Buenas noches, mi cielo…" she whispered. Only when she was certain the girl was safe did she slip into her own futon, the kimono folding gently around her body as she lay down.
----
By the time María drifted into sleep beneath the soft folds of her kimono, the world outside her hidden forest sanctuary had erupted into chaotic activity. Blue and red lights pulsed like frantic heartbeats across a city unaware who had passed through it only hours before. At the far edge of the metro district, the ruins of the Shie Hassaikai compound sprawled across the earth like the bones of a giant creature shattered under impossible force. Police vans lined the streets in overlapping rows, armored trucks blocked off side alleys, and forensic tents dotted the perimeter as floodlights bathed the crater in harsh, unnatural white.
The destruction was… breathtaking. Not in beauty, but in scale.
An entire criminal organization had been swallowed by the earth.
Forensic specialists advanced slowly, their boots crunching over pulverized stone and brittle fragments that once belonged to walls, medical machines, reinforced steel support beams, and illegal equipment of unknown purpose. The ground itself seemed wounded cracked, rippled, and burned in irregular patterns, as if heat had burst from dozens of points all at once, leaving behind blackened scorch marks that offered no clear origin.
"No accelerant," a technician murmured, scanning a charred patch with a UV device. "No chemical trace. No explosive residue. Whatever burned this wasn't a normal fire."
Another crouched near warped metal that still hissed faintly in the cold air.
"This is structural steel. It should take sustained heat to melt it. But there are no thermal gradients, no flow patterns… nothing. It's like the surface reached meltdown temperature instantly."
They worked with methodical precision, but their faces betrayed something uncomfortable: confusion. Investigators were used to villain battles, quirks, crime scenes that defied physic, but this was different. This didn't look like a battle. There were no signs of struggle, no scorch trails from attacks, no scattered debris from a fight.
It looked like one event.
One moment.
One devastating pulse of destruction.
Above them, heroes surveyed the area with grim professionalism. Conversations were muted, restrained. Even seasoned pros who had once stood beside All Might whispered among themselves in unsettled tones, each theory falling apart under the weight of the evidence.
Every assumption led back to one conclusion:
This had been done by one person with a Quirk powerful enough to erase an entire compound.
And that idea alone was alarming.
Near the crater's deepest point, EMTs hovered around the only surviving presence Kai Chisaki, Overhaul. But calling him "surviving" was generous. His body writhed uncontrollably, muscles convulsing, fingers clawing at nothing as he screamed in unending, ragged agony. His wounds closed and reopened in sickening cycles, as if something was forcing his cells to rebuild just to destroy them again. His voice was no longer truly human more a shredded vibration of pain that tore through the cold air.
A medic swallowed thickly. "He won't answer questions… he can't. He hasn't formed a word since we found him."
"He's regenerating," another muttered, "but the damage keeps repeating. What kind of Quirk does this? What kind of ability traps someone in a loop like this?"
No one answered.
Because no one knew.
Detective Tsukauchi approached silently, his expression tight with something between shock and deep unease. He looked at Overhaul the criminal mastermind, the man whose actions had fueled an entire investigation now reduced to a screaming, incoherent shell. It wasn't justice. It wasn't mercy. It wasn't even cruelty in the traditional sense.
It was something else.
Something deliberate.
Something designed.
A shout broke the tension. "Detective! Sir Nighteye has arrived!"
Sir Nighteye descended the temporary ramp with Bubble Girl and Centipeder flanking him. His long stride halted at the edge of the crater, his sharp eyes narrowing. He surveyed the destruction with surgical focus every burn, every collapsed layer of stone, every melted instrument. He didn't activate his Quirk; he didn't need to. The lack of evidence already told him this would be a disaster of a case.
Centipeder stepped forward, bowing.
"Sir. The facility has been utterly annihilated. We've only recovered scraps of destroyed machinery and melted metal. Nothing readable. No documents survived. Any leads on illegal drug development, black market dealings, quirk-erasure compounds all gone."
Bubble Girl clutched her clipboard.
"We found restraints, broken equipment, and what might have been medical devices, but they're fused together. It's impossible to analyze. Whoever did this didn't just destroy the building… they erased every trace of what happened here."
Sir Nighteye's jaw stiffened.
"This is months of work. Months of surveillance. Months of waiting for a chance to strike."
His voice lowered, bitter.
"And it vanished in a single night."
He walked farther down the incline, stopping near Overhaul's convulsing form. The villain screamed louder as a fresh wave of burning pain tore through him. Nighteye didn't flinch, but a muscle in his cheek tightened.
"No quirk we know behaves like this," Centipeder murmured. "And no quirk user on record has this level of destructive force."
Sir Nighteye remained silent for a long moment.
Then a shout.
"Sir! Over here!"
Bubble Girl had wandered along the crater wall. She knelt beside a scorched piece of standing concrete, her eyes wide.
Carved into the surface burned deep into the concrete was a message.
Jagged.
Imperfect.
Burned by heat so intense the stone had blistered.
"Cruelty will be punished."
Bubble Girl whispered, "This wasn't vandalism. This was intentional. A warning."
Tsukauchi stepped beside her, eyes widening. "A vigilante…?"
Sir Nighteye's gaze sharpened.
"No. Not a vigilante we've seen before. Someone powerful. Someone precise. Someone who knew exactly what they were eliminating."
Before anyone could respond, Tsukauchi's radio crackled to life.
"Detective Tsukauchi, this is dispatch. Be advised: we have a report of an armed robbery at a convenience store approximately two kilometers from your location. Two suspects have been incapacitated. No civilian casualties reported. Witness claims an unidentified woman intervened and neutralized the threat before units arrived."
Tsukauchi's eyes narrowed slightly. "Description?"
The reply came after a brief rustle of papers. "Witness says… foreign woman, long hair, 'weird eyes,' moving too fast for him to follow. Cameras caught motion, but initial review shows heavy blur."
He glanced at the still image on the tablet one of the techs held a blurred feminine figure, face indistinct, but with two spiraling points of light where her eyes should be, staring directly into the camera like she was looking through it. He exhaled slowly, the cold tightening in his lungs.
"Understood," he said into the radio. "Send units to secure the site and collect the footage. I'll review everything once we're done here."
He lowered the radio, looked once more at the ruined base, at the burned words, at the screaming remains of Overhaul, and then at the blurred eyes glowing on the tablet screen. At first glance, this night looked like a victory a major criminal organization erased, their leader broken. But to someone like Tsukauchi, who lived in the gray spaces between heroes and criminals, it looked like something more complicated.
Somewhere out there, a powerful unknown was moving.
They weren't on any registry.
They operated outside of the Pro Hero system.
And they clearly had their own definition of justice.
---
Next Morning
The sky above the forest brightened slowly, trading deep pre-dawn blues for softer grays and faint gold. Mist clung to the bases of the trees, stretching in wispy bands between roots and stones, as if the earth was still yawning awake. Inside the hidden mansion María had created, warm light seeped gently through paper screens, nudged along by the lazy sway of hanging lanterns. The air smelled faintly of wood, tatami, and something else a sweetness that wrapped itself around the quiet like a soft ribbon.
On her futon, Eri twitched.
Her eyes snapped open all at once, as if expecting to be already too late to something too late to obey, too late to brace for punishment. For several long seconds she didn't move at all. Her body remained curled under the blanket, muscles tensed, as her mind scrambled to make sense of where she was and what she was supposed to do. In the underground rooms she remembered, waking up meant more procedures, more pain, more cold. There were schedules. Routines. Voices. Orders. Here… there was only silence.
She swallowed nervously and slowly lifted her head.
The ceiling above her was made of wood, beams crossing like quiet lines instead of harsh metal supports. The walls were soft paper panels, painted faintly with patterns she didn't recognize. The futon she lay on was warm and soft, the blanket wrapped around her like something that actually wanted her to be comfortable. No restraints. No straps. No needles waiting on a table beside her.
Her small fingers dug into the fabric, just to be sure it was real.
No pain came.
Her heart hammered in her chest anyway.
Eri sat up slowly, hugging the blanket around herself for courage. Her eyes moved around the room, wide and pale, taking everything in with that quiet, haunted caution of a child who had learned very early that the world punished curiosity. She listened really listened for the sounds her body expected: the hum of equipment, the echo of boots, the sharp click of instruments being prepared. Nothing. Only the distant rustle of wind through trees and… something else.
A sound.
A voice, almost, but not words. A melody.
Somewhere deeper in the house, someone was humming.
The sound flowed gently down the hallway, soft and steady, like a lullaby with all its edges rounded down. It was warm. It was slow. It wasn't angry. Eri froze, breath caught halfway in her throat, trying to decide if that made the sound comforting or terrifying. Humming meant someone was there. Someone being calm. But calm could turn dangerous very quickly.
Then the smell reached her.
Warm. Sweet. Familiar in a way that cracked something in her chest like a memory from a time when life hurt less. She sniffed cautiously, nose twitching. It smelled like… something golden. Like syrup. Like… like that one time long ago when she'd seen another child at a festival eating something on a stick, sticky and shining in the sun. She didn't know the word for it. But her body did.
Her stomach gave the faintest, embarrassed growl.
Carefully, Eri slid her legs out from under the blanket and placed her feet on the tatami. The floor was firm but not cold, the texture strange under her toes. She flinched anyway, half-expecting a jolt of pain or a scolding voice to kick in. When nothing happened, she waited a few more heartbeats just to be sure… then pushed herself shakily to her feet.
She moved the way a frightened animal might explore a new enclosure tiny steps, shoulders hunched, eyes constantly flicking from one corner to another. Every creak in the floor made her stiffen. Every shadow made her flinch. But the humming continued, calm and unbroken, and the sweet smell grew a little stronger with each step.
She reached the doorway, hesitated, then peeked into the hall.
Empty.
The corridor stretched out in front of her, lined with sliding doors and lit by a row of paper lanterns on the wall, their faint orange glow making the wood seem less harsh. Eri clutched the edge of her blanket tight around her small body like a shield and stepped out, bare feet almost silent on the mats. She followed the smell the way a lost child might follow a distant light.
Around the first corner, the humming got clearer not a song she knew, just little rises and falls in a mellow, playful pattern. Whoever it was sounded… content. That alone made her want to stop. People in that place had never hummed while near her unless they were amused by her fear. Her chest tightened. Her instinct told her to turn back, crawl into the futon, and pretend to be invisible.
But her stomach twisted again a small, hungry ache.
And the smell…
She reached the threshold of the kitchen and pressed herself against the wooden frame, peeking around it with just one eye, ready to jerk back if she saw anything sharp or bloody.
What she saw instead made her blink in confused disbelief.
The kitchen was bright with morning light, pouring in through a wide window that overlooked the forest. On the counter, neatly arranged, were plates of food: steaming rice, scrambled eggs, sliced fruit, and small bowls set aside, as if someone had carefully portioned everything for more than one person. A jar of honey sat open, golden and thick, a spoon resting across the top. A kettle steamed softly on the stove.
And in front of the stove, her back turned to the doorway, stood María.
Her long, rainbow-colored hair flowed freely down her back, shifting gently with her movements. The Aztec-and-rose kimono wrapped around her figure, sleeves tied back slightly so they wouldn't get in the way while she cooked. Her posture was relaxed, one hand stirring something in a pan, the other tapping lightly on the counter in time with the quiet humming leaving her lips. Her eyes, though Eri couldn't see them, were closed as always, adding to that strange air of softness and calm she carried.
Eri's fingers tightened on the doorway.
Someone was there. Someone unknown.
But they were cooking.
And humming.
No fear.
No anger.
The little girl stood completely still, heart pounding, eyes locked on the gentle rise and fall of María's shoulders as she moved. The scent of honey and warm food wrapped around her like invisible arms, pulling her forward, while every frightened instinct screamed at her to stay hidden.
She did what Eri always did in those moments.
She watched.
She waited.
The humming drifted through the kitchen like a warm, gentle breeze soft enough to soothe the air itself, steady enough to make the room feel alive with quiet safety. Eri stood frozen in the doorway, small fingers gripping the wooden frame so tightly her knuckles turned white. She watched the woman at the stove long hair flowing in shifting colors, kimono patterned with roses and Aztec lines moving so calmly, so effortlessly, that for a moment Eri wondered if she was dreaming.
But then, without warning, the humming stopped.
The silence was instant. Heavy. Crushing.
Eri's tiny body stiffened so quickly it hurt. Her breath locked in her throat. Her heart thudded against her ribs in a frantic rhythm that screamed at her to hide, run, curl up, disappear — anything but stand there exposed. Her legs refused to move. Her fingers clung harder to the doorway. The familiar terror wrapped tight around her chest, whispering the same words she'd heard for years:
He'll find you.
He always finds you.
You aren't allowed to run.
Before she could retreat, a soft voice broke the silence. Not sharp. Not cold. Not the voice she feared.
"Good morning, cariño."
Eri froze again — but differently this time. María didn't turn around abruptly or make a sudden movement. She simply lifted her head a little, still facing the stove, speaking in that gentle tone that flowed warm and steady like the morning sunlight.
"It's alright," she continued, voice low and soothing. "No bad people will ever hurt you again."
Eri's throat tightened painfully. Her small chest rose and fell in fast, shallow breaths. She shook her head desperately, hair swaying. "N-No…" Her voice came out cracked and thin, barely more than a squeak. "H-He… he always finds me…"
Her hands balled into fists, nails scraping against her skin.
"H-He'll hurt me again… he always—he said he always—"
"Kai Chisaki," María murmured, still not raising her voice, still not turning suddenly. The way she said the name made Eri's breath hitch, like she'd been caught in something she didn't understand. "That's who you're afraid of… right?"
Eri trembled violently.
Her eyes widened.
Her mouth opened in a soundless sob.
She didn't know how this woman knew that name.
She shouldn't know it.
No one outside the base should know it.
"Shhhh…" María finally turned her head slightly, just enough for Eri to glimpse the kind curve of her smile and the closed eyes that somehow felt safer than anything Eri had seen in years. "You don't need to be afraid of him anymore."
Eri shook her head harder, stepping back a little.
"Y-You don't know… you don't… he—he always finds me… he hurts me… I c-can't—"
"Oh, but I do know," María said softly, and at last she turned around fully.
Her movements were slow, deliberate — the kind of slow that told Eri she was trying not to scare her. The rainbow-haired woman faced her completely, hands held calmly in front of her as she took in the sight of a shaking, terrified little girl peeking from behind the doorway. María's smile softened further, almost playful, almost silly.
"Look," she said gently, and then she lifted one arm, curled it, and flexed her bicep with exaggerated effort, puffing her cheeks out like she was pretending to lift something heavy. "I made the bad man go poof. No more hurting you. No more chasing you. No more scary things."
Her attempt at childish bravado was so earnest it almost made her seem ridiculous. María even added a tiny grunt and wiggled her eyebrows, trying to make the moment lighter.
Eri blinked once. Twice.
She didn't laugh — not even close — but something in her expression shifted. Not trust. Not comfort. But confusion. The kind of confusion a child feels when someone does something unexpected, something they don't have a script for. She stared at María as if she were a puzzle piece that didn't belong anywhere she'd ever known.
"But… he said…" Eri whispered, her voice trembling. "He said if I ran… if anyone took me… he'd find me… he'd make me… disappear…"
María's expression softened even further, her smile turning warm and achingly gentle — the kind that felt like a blanket draped over trembling shoulders.
"He won't find you," she said with quiet certainty. "He won't hurt you. He won't even come near you."
Eri's lip trembled. Her eyes watered, but she forced herself to blink the tears back. She didn't trust this woman — not yet — but some part of her wanted to believe. Wanted to cling to the possibility that this wasn't another lie meant to make her behave.
María took one small step toward the kitchen table and gestured toward the seat.
"You can sit down, mi pequeña. You don't have to eat everything. Just sit. Breathe. You're safe here."
Eri didn't move.
María lowered the hand, still smiling gently.
"And even if you don't believe me yet… that's okay," she said softly. "It might take a long time. A very long time, hm?" She touched one finger to her chin thoughtfully. "So we'll go slow. Step by step."
Eri stared at her feet, toes curling on the tatami.
María set the table quietly, placing a small plate in front of the nearest seat — rice, eggs, fruit, and a tiny drizzle of honey shaped into a little heart, as if she were trying to brighten the meal with something whimsical and soft.
"You can come when you're ready," María murmured, turning her back again and returning to the stove, humming once more under her breath. "I'll be right here."
The humming started again.
Soft. Calm. Patient.
Eri remained in the doorway, unmoving, clutching the blanket around herself like armor.
She didn't smile.
Not yet.
Her foot slid forward another inch painfully slow, as if she were crossing a field of invisible traps. Every breath came unevenly, her shoulders rising and falling in trembling waves beneath the blanket clutched around her body. She did not look up. She did not dare. Her gaze stayed glued to the tatami floor, watching the pattern woven into the fibers as if it might shift into something dangerous at any moment. The old habits of terror were carved too deeply into her bones to be forgotten in a single morning.
The humming continued soft but steady, a quiet, rhythmic vibration that filled the kitchen like warmth seeped under a door. It was strange. Eri didn't understand how something so gentle could exist without a punishment hidden behind it. Every soft moment in her old life had been a lie, a thin veil before the pain started again. She tried to brace herself for the moment the humming would turn sharp or mocking, but it didn't. It simply drifted through the air like a simple, patient melody.
Her second foot slid forward barely more than a shuffle.
Then she stopped again.
Her chest tightened, fear creeping up her spine like icy fingers.
Too far, her mind warned. Too close. Too exposed.
The wall was still behind her, but the safety of the doorway was already slipping away.
Eri's trembling grew so strong that the blanket around her rustled audibly. She gripped it tighter, twisting the fabric in tiny, fist-sized knots. She didn't cry. Crying had never saved her from anything. Crying made things worse. She swallowed the tears until her throat burned, blinking rapidly to force them back down.
The chair Maria had pointed at sat only a few feet away now bright white rice steaming in a small bowl, fruit arranged gently, the drizzle of honey reflecting the morning light in golden swirls. It looked… nice. Too nice. Like something meant for a child who wasn't her. Her stomach clenched again, a softer ache followed by a faint sound she immediately tried to stifle with her hand pressed to her belly.
María's humming paused for just a breath barely a heartbeat but it was enough to make Eri flinch violently.
She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for a voice raised in anger.
Instead, María simply spoke softly again, her words drifting through the kitchen like steam.
"Just a few more steps, cariño… only if you want to. No rush."
Eri opened her eyes slowly, her lashes wet but her expression blank shut down, controlled, the way she had learned to survive. Her feet moved again, dragging slightly on the mats. She still refused to lift her gaze, her eyes glued to the floor as if meeting María's face might turn her to stone.
When she reached the edge of the table, she stopped so abruptly her whole body jerked. She stood there, small and trembling, clutching the blanket with both hands like a shield. The chair was right beside her, but she didn't sit. She pressed her shoulder against the wood of the wall, needing its solidity against her back.
María didn't turn.
Didn't look at her.
Didn't make a sound other than the gentle stirring of the spoon.
The lack of pressure confused Eri more than anything else.
She risked the smallest glance upward just a flicker of her eyes toward María's back. The woman's posture remained relaxed, eyes still closed, humming beginning again with a softness that bordered on unreal.
Eri's eyes darted away quickly.
Too much.
Too unfamiliar.
Her hands loosened just enough for the blanket to slip slightly off her shoulder. She didn't fix it. She simply stood there, lost and scared and painfully small.
María's voice rose again quiet, warm, nothing sharp hidden inside it.
"You don't need to sit if you're not ready. You can stand there as long as you like."
Eri swallowed, the sound tiny and fragile.
Her fingers released the blanket for a moment, only to grasp it again instantly. She looked at the food a long stare, filled not with hunger, but with fear disguised as curiosity. She didn't trust it. Food in the compound had always come with strings attached. Eat now so you can obey later. Eat so you don't faint during procedures. Eat because pain was coming afterward.
Her lip trembled again.
She reached out her hand hesitant, shaking to touch the edge of the table.
Her fingers brushed the wood.
Her entire arm recoiled so sharply she almost hit herself with her own hand.
Her breathing quickened, panic flaring, but… there was no reprimand. No hand grabbing her wrist. No sharp voice ordering her to sit or stand straight or apologize.
Just the soft hum.
And the smell of honey.
And a kitchen too warm for nightmares.
"It's alright," María murmured again, stirring gently. "One step at a time."
Eri did not move closer.
She did not touch the table again.
But she didn't run.
For a long moment, nothing in the kitchen moved except the faint steam rising from the bowl in front of the empty seat. Eri hovered beside the table, her tiny frame trembling with a fear so deeply rooted that even the warm smell of honey couldn't fully reach her. Her eyes kept darting between the food and the doorway she had come from, as though she were waiting for a shadow to emerge and snatch her back into a world that no longer existed.
Her hand twitched forward again.
Then pulled back.
Then hovered in the space between fear and longing.
María continued humming not loudly, not intrusively, but with the same soft steadiness that moved like warm water through the air. She didn't turn around, didn't look over her shoulder, didn't comment on Eri's trembling. She simply let the girl stand there, suspended between hunger and terror, giving her space to make the smallest decisions herself.
Eventually, almost without realizing it, Eri's fingers inched toward the table again. This time her hand brushed the edge more firmly. Her breath caught in her throat, chest tightening, expecting pain or reprimand or a cold voice snapping her name.
Nothing happened.
The silence remained warm.
The humming remained soft.
Eri's shoulders shook not from cold, but from panic loosening just enough for confusion to seep in. Very slowly, she turned her head toward the chair, her eyes tracking the path she would need to take to sit. It was only two steps. Two impossibly long steps.
Her knees bent slightly, hesitating. Her toes curled against the floor. Then, with the kind of bravery that came not from trust but from exhaustion, she took the smallest step sideways.
Then another.
Then she reached the chair.
Her tiny hands gripped the edge of the seat, knuckles white. She pulled slightly, testing if the chair would move, if it would creak too loudly, if it would draw attention in a way that would trigger danger.
It slid a little.
She flinched so violently she nearly toppled backward.
But again nothing bad happened.
The blanket around her shoulders slipped halfway down her left arm, exposing pale, thin skin marked with old tension, but she didn't fix it. All her focus went into lowering herself into the seat with slow, trembling motions, like she was lowering herself into cold water that might suddenly swallow her whole.
When she finally sat, the chair barely made a sound just a soft, harmless whisper against the tatami.
Eri froze.
She didn't breathe for three seconds.
Maybe five.
Then her lungs forced in a shaky inhale, and her chest expanded with a whimper she immediately swallowed down.
She had sat down.
She had actually sat.
Her small hands hovered above the bowl, fingers trembling in the warm steam like frightened butterflies unsure if they should land. The sweet scent reached her again — honey, fruit, eggs, rice — a scent nothing like the metallic, sterile halls she'd been trapped in. A scent almost too gentle to believe.
She reached toward the bowl.
Her fingertips brushed the wooden edge.
A tiny metallic clink rang out as the spoon shifted inside.
Eri jolted hard, recoiling as if the metal had bitten her. Her chair scraped slightly against the floor with her sudden movement, and she yanked her hands into her lap, heart hammering painfully fast.
María turned her head just a little, enough for Eri to see her closed eyes and the small, reassuring smile that touched her lips.
"Is it too scary, mi pequeña?" she asked softly.
Eri didn't answer. Her throat closed too tight to speak. Her eyes darted toward the utensils like they were dangerous animals waiting to lunge.
María followed her gaze, still smiling gently.
"Ah… I see." She lifted her hand delicately. "The metal frightens you."
She didn't use a threatening gesture. She didn't move quickly. She simply snapped her fingers — a tiny, harmless sound.
In an instant, the spoon and fork shimmered softly and shifted shape, transforming into small toy-like utensils carved from smooth pastel-colored material. Soft edges. Rounded shapes. Not a single point or harsh sound left in them.
Eri stared.
Her mouth parted slightly.
Confusion flickered over her face like a small, uncertain flame.
María didn't stop there.
She turned back to the counter and snapped her fingers again, changing her own utensils into the same soft, childlike shapes. A matching set. Equally silly. Equally gentle.
"So you don't feel alone," María said with a light hum, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Eri blinked rapidly — once, twice, then three times — her eyes flicking from her utensils to María's, to the bowl, to her own hands.
Her fingers twitched.
Her breath shuddered.
She reached out again, achingly slow, fingertips brushing the toy spoon.
This time, when it shifted against the bowl, the gentle tap it made was soft, harmless, almost musical.
Eri didn't flinch.
Eri held the spoon in both hands as if it were something fragile, something sacred, something she didn't quite understand. Her fingers trembled with every inch the utensil moved, but she still guided it upward, still lifted it toward her small mouth despite the years of fear knotted deep within her. The steam brushed against her lips, warm and sweet, and for a single heartbeat she hesitated frozen between instinct and need.
Then, slowly, she took her first bite.
The taste blossomed across her tongue soft rice, warm egg, a delicate sweetness of honey that melted gently and spread like the smallest spark of comfort in a place inside her heart she didn't know still existed. It was unfamiliar. It was overwhelming. It was… good. And because it was good, it terrified her even more.
Her eyes widened, glimmering with confusion.
Her tiny shoulders shook.
Her breath stumbled in her chest before she forced it out in a shaky whisper:
"…This… tastes good…"
Her voice was so quiet, so brittle, that the words almost disappeared into the air before they reached the table. But she said them. For the first time, she said them.
Tears began to fall almost instantly.
Not sobs.
Not wails.
Not even choked breaths.
Just silent tears, sliding slowly down her cheeks one by one, as though her body didn't understand how to make noise when crying. The kind of tears that came from a place deeper than fear, from a wound older than her memories.
María heard her she always heard everything but she didn't gasp, didn't comment, didn't draw attention to it. Instead, she slowly, gently stopped humming. The air settled into a soft, quiet stillness as María turned from the stove and approached the table with the calm grace of someone who understood how easily a frightened child could shatter.
She pulled out the chair across from Eri and sat down without fanfare, adjusting her kimono with a peaceful sigh. She didn't stare at Eri. She didn't reach across the table. She didn't lean forward. She simply picked up her own toy-like spoon the one she had transformed to match Eri's and began eating her own food as though this was the most normal morning in the world.
Small bites.
Quiet chewing.
No pressure.
She gave Eri the dignity of pretending not to notice the tears.
Every so often, the softest sniffle escaped Eri despite her efforts to remain silent. She wiped at her cheeks with the edge of the blanket, trying to hide the movement as though afraid she'd be punished for making a mess on her face.
María didn't react. Not even a glance.
She only took another bite.
And another.
And another.
Eating alongside her.
After a long, fragile silence, Eri raised her spoon again. She hesitated just a small pause where her hand trembled violently but then she took another bite. Tears fell again, splashing lightly against the blanket, but she didn't stop eating. She ate because she was hungry. She ate because the food was warm. She ate because for the first time, no one was forcing her.
And María continued to act as though nothing at all was wrong.
As though silent tears over a bowl of honeyed rice were perfectly normal.
As though a terrified child eating gently at her table was exactly how the morning should begin.
30 minutes later....
Halfway through the bowl, Eri's movements slowed. Her spoon trembled in her hand, rising only halfway before hovering in the space between her mouth and the bowl. The hunger that had carried her through her first few bites settled into something softer, heavier a quiet fullness she didn't understand, one that frightened her simply because she wasn't used to feeling it. Her small chest rose and fell in slow, uneasy breaths, each inhale tighter than the last as she tried to decide if she was allowed to stop.
Her fingers tightened around the spoon.
Her shoulders stiffened.
Her eyes flicked toward the doorway again checking, bracing, waiting for a command she'd obey without question.
María watched her carefully through her closed eyes, hiding her concern with a gentle smile. She didn't speak immediately. She didn't reach across the table. She didn't force encouragement. Instead, she quietly lifted her toy-like spoon, took a last bite from her own plate, and chewed in her usual calm, rhythmic pattern. Then she set the spoon down with a soft click, folding her hands neatly in front of her as she regarded Eri with soft affection.
She only spoke when she saw the moment Eri tensed enough to stop eating entirely.
"You did wonderfully, cariño," María said, her warm voice filling the quiet room. "Half a bowl is more than enough."
Eri's expression flickered with disbelief.
Enough?
The word didn't exist in the world she came from.
She looked down at the bowl, then at her trembling hands, as though expecting the food to vanish or reform into some hidden test. When nothing happened, the tension in her arms loosened just barely. She lowered the spoon with timid, deliberate care, setting it inside the bowl as though afraid it might break if she was careless.
She didn't notice María stand.
She didn't hear the soft rustle of the kimono as María pushed her chair back.
She didn't feel the warmth approach until something soft touched her cheek.
Eri froze not in panic, but in shock.
A warm cloth swept gently across her skin, brushing away tiny specks of honey and grains of rice. The touch was impossibly soft, impossibly deliberate, impossibly… kind. There was no force. No grip. No cold fingers digging into her chin to tilt her face. No sharp commands.
Just gentle, careful movements that made her chest ache with something she didn't recognize.
Her eyes slowly lifted sluggish, heavy, unsure until they met María's serene face.
María kneeled at her side, leaning in just close enough to wipe her cheeks clean while keeping enough distance not to overwhelm her. One hand held the cloth; the other rested openly on her knee where Eri could see it, showing she held nothing dangerous.
"There you are," María whispered, her voice warm enough to melt the frost still clinging to Eri's heart. "All clean."
And Eri… didn't flinch.
Her breathing didn't stutter in fear.
Her body didn't curl inward.
Instead, she looked up at María with wide, shining eyes—eyes filled not with terror, but with a trembling, fragile confusion.
Her lips parted.
"Wh… why…?" she breathed out.
María tilted her head gently.
"Why what, cariño?"
Eri stared at her lap, fingers twisting into the blanket, knuckles pressing white beneath her skin. She swallowed before the words finally spilled—hesitant, broken, but honest.
"Why would you want… someone like me…?" Another breath. "A… a freak… a monster… like he said…"
María's smile softened, not fading but deepening with emotion. She brought one hand to her head and tapped her own horn lightly.
"Well," she said with a playful hum, "if you're a freak, then so am I."
Eri blinked in confusion.
María then leaned in closer—slowly, gently—and lowered her head so her colorful horn aligned with Eri's tiny one.
"Because," she whispered, "we're horn besties."
She nudged her horn against Eri's.
Tap.
The small sound that echoed between them wasn't loud, but it reverberated through Eri's heart like a tiny, unexpected spark soft, sweet, unreal. Her lips parted in shock, her chest tightening in a way that wasn't fear. She stared at María with eyes full of wonder she couldn't hide.
"You… think I'm… cute?" she asked, voice trembling.
María laughed softly, a warm, musical sound.
"Cute? You're the most adorable little girl I've ever seen. Cutest horn, too."
Eri's breath hitched.
Then María placed a hand over her heart.
"And from now on," she said, her voice turning tender and solemn, "I'll protect you."
No hesitation.
No uncertainty.
Just truth.
"I promise, little one… one day, I'll make you smile so bright it lights up the sky."
Eri's eyes shimmered again not with dread, but with something warm enough to hurt in a different way.
After a quiet moment, María rose from her kneeling position. She didn't walk away. Instead, she bent forward slightly, extending her arms not to grab Eri, but to offer something gentle and rare.
"If you'd like," she said softly, "I can carry you outside. The forest around our home is peaceful. Safe. You don't have to walk if you don't want to."
Eri blinked.
Her fingers tightened around her blanket.
Eri stared at María's open arms as though she were looking at something forbidden something she had seen before only in the hazy outline of dreams she could never quite remember upon waking. The offer itself felt unreal, like something meant for other children, children in storybooks or on TV screens she'd barely glimpsed from behind sterile glass walls. It wasn't an order. It wasn't a trap. It wasn't a test disguised as kindness. It was a choice. A gentle one.
But choice was another language she had never learned.
Her small fingers twisted tighter into the blanket, pulling it closer to her chest until the fabric bunched beneath her chin. Her eyes wide, glassy, still shimmering with leftover tears moved between María's waiting arms and the floor at her feet. Her breath grew shallow, not in fear, but in something like overwhelmed confusion. The weight of simply being offered a softness she had never experienced pressed down on her ribs until she felt she might crack under it.
María didn't move.
Didn't shift.
Didn't hurry her.
She remained kneeling just enough to be at Eri's height, arms offered in quiet invitation, posture curved with the gentlest patience. Her expression stayed soft a smile that was warm without being bright, affectionate without being intrusive. Her eyes still closed in calm serenity, as though she trusted Eri to make the choice at her own pace.
"Only if you want," María said, her voice low and smooth as warm honey. "You don't have to walk if you don't feel ready."
Those words "If you want" unraveled something fragile inside Eri. Her breathing hitched, her hands trembling only for a moment before the trembling faded again, replaced with that strange, new calm that had begun growing ever since María wiped her face. The remnants of her old fear didn't surge back like they used to. Instead, they lingered like ghosts present but fading.
Eri's gaze finally lifted from the floor, drawn slowly upward, following the gentle curve of María's kimono, the rise of her shoulders, the tender openness of her arms, and then the soft, waiting smile on her lips.
And something inside Eri cracked not in a way that hurt, but in a way that allowed something else, something warmer, to spill through.
She loosened her grip on the blanket.
Not fully just enough to show she wasn't hiding behind it anymore.
Her breath escaped her in a tiny, wavering sigh.
Then, with the careful hesitation of someone stepping onto thin ice, she raised her arms small, delicate, trembling just slightly and reached toward María.
It was not a confident reach.
Not a child leaping trustingly into a parent's embrace.
But it was a reach.
A willingness.
A quiet surrender to the hope she didn't yet understand.
María's smile brightened just a fraction.
She slid her arms around Eri with a tenderness so precise, so impossibly careful, it was as if she feared Eri might crumble if held even a bit too tightly. Her hands supported Eri's back and beneath her legs, lifting her with the ease of someone who had carried countless burdens but still cherished each one as precious.
Eri didn't tense.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't pull away.
Her body, instinctively, curled into María's warmth, her tiny form fitting perfectly against the soft fabric of the kimono. The blanket still wrapped her shoulders, but now María's arms wrapped her too, cradling her carefully not like a fragile object, but like someone cherished.
The forest waited just beyond the door, its scent drifting faintly through the cracks the earthy smell of soil, the soft rustle of leaves brushing against one another, the quiet hum of morning life awakening in the shadows.
María rose to her feet with slow, steady movements, making sure Eri felt every shift, every adjustment, every part of the embrace that said: You are safe.
Eri pressed her cheek lightly against María's shoulder.
Not intentionally.
Not affectionately.
Just because it felt… steady.
And because she didn't want to fall.
María stepped toward the door, her voice a low, soothing whisper.
"Let's go see the forest, mi pequeña."
Eri didn't respond with words not yet.
But her hand, tiny and pale, released the blanket just enough to curl loosely against María's kimono.
And for the first time in her life, she allowed herself to be carried toward something beautiful.
The sliding door opened with a soft wooden whisper, letting in a breath of crisp morning air that drifted across Eri's skin like a delicate invitation. María stepped through the threshold slowly, carefully, as though every motion was meant to reassure the small girl in her arms that nothing outside would harm her not the breeze, not the shifting branches, not the world beyond the walls.
Eri's eyes round, pale, still slightly rimmed with the shine of unshed tears blinked against the soft golden glow that met her. Sunlight filtered through the trees in gentle rays, turning the clearing before them into a mosaic of warm colors and drifting shadows. Leaves shimmered overhead, each one moving with a soft rustle that made it seem like the forest itself was whispering secrets to the morning.
Eri stiffened instinctively, pressing her small hand tighter into María's kimono. The world beyond four walls had always been loud, overwhelming, dangerous. But here… the air wasn't filled with shouting, or threats, or cold metal. It was filled with birdsong light, cautious chirps that seemed to greet her. It was filled with the soft crunch of leaves beneath María's feet. It was filled with scents she had never smelled before: fresh soil, blooming flowers, clean air.
And beneath all that, subtle and soft, the scent of honey still clung to her from breakfast.
María held her a little closer—not tightly, but securely, warmly, like a shield wrapped in silk. The kimono rustled gently as she stepped deeper into the clearing. Eri's cheek rested against her shoulder, her breathing steady but unsure, each inhale trembling with the unfamiliarity of peace.
"This is our forest," María murmured softly, her voice blending seamlessly with the quiet morning. "It's safe here. Peaceful. You can come out whenever you like, or stay inside when you don't want to. There are no rules here except the ones you make for yourself."
Eri didn't speak. Her head tilted slightly, her eyes drifting across the treetops as a gentle breeze brushed through her hair. She watched sunlight flicker through the leaves like scattered gold. One patch of morning light landed on her small horn, making it glow faintly. She blinked at it, surprised her horn had never looked pretty before.
Overhaul never allowed her to see anything of herself except what hurt him to look at.
Her voice small, fragile, a thin whisper of sound escaped her without meaning to.
"It's… bright…"
María smiled, feeling the soft shift of Eri's breath against her neck.
"Yes," she answered warmly. "Bright, but gentle. Just like you will be one day."
Eri's grip tightened slightly this time not from fear, but from the weight of feeling something she didn't have a name for. Warmth. Safety. Awe. Confusion. All of it tangled together inside her tiny frame.
They reached a small open patch where sunlight pooled directly onto the forest floor. María paused, giving Eri time to look around without moving too fast.
Eri's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. A small butterfly wings pale blue like her eyes fluttered past them, drifting close enough that Eri's hair stirred as it passed. She didn't flinch. She simply watched, breath soft and still, as if her heart had momentarily forgotten how to brace for danger.
María lowered herself slowly, shifting her weight so Eri could see the forest floor clearly without stepping down yet.
"You know," María said in a gentle murmur, "beautiful things come from places that hurt. Flowers grow in dirt. Trees grow after storms. And you…" She shifted one hand to lightly brush a strand of white hair from Eri's forehead, her touch feather-soft. "You survived something terrible. But that doesn't make you a monster."
Eri's lips parted. Her eyes lowered to her chest, her small hand clutching the blanket tighter again.
"Over… overhaul said…" Her voice trembled. "Said I was cursed… said people like me… hurt others… ruin things… that I'm… wrong…"
María shook her head, her smile soft but firm.
"No. You're not wrong. You're not cursed. You're not a monster."
Her fingers brushed the top of Eri's horn gently. "You're a little girl with a cute horn and a brave heart. And that's all."
Eri's eyes glistened again, but they didn't overflow. She blinked rapidly, confusion swirling inside her like a storm trying and failing to restart.
María leaned her head slightly closer.
"And," she added softly, "if anyone truly understands horns…"
She tapped her own with a playful grin,
"It's me."
That earned Eri's first quiet exhale of something that wasn't fear. Not laughter not yet but a soft breath like the tiniest seed of relief.
María shifted her stance, preparing to speak again.
"And if you want," she said gently, "I can take away the marks… the ones those men left behind. Every bruise, every scar, every reminder."
She paused, giving Eri time to process.
"You can choose."
Eri's breath caught. Her fingers curled into the kimono again, tighter this time, but not from panic. Her eyes lowered, staring at her own small legs wrapped in the blanket.
"M–Make them… go away?" she whispered.
María nodded slowly, brushing a gentle hand across Eri's back.
"Yes, cariño." Her voice softened even further. "If you want them gone… I can make them disappear forever."
The forest around them swayed gently, branches whispering overhead like soft voices encouraging her to speak. The butterfly from moments earlier settled on a leaf nearby, wings shimmering faintly in the sunlight, as if waiting with her for the answer she struggled to release.
Her lips parted once. Closed.
Parted again, the softest sound catching in her throat.
When she finally found her voice, it came out as nothing more than a fragile exhale.
"…Will it hurt?"
The question seemed to hang in the air between them, delicate and trembling, like a thin strand of silk stretched too tight. Eri's eyes lifted barely toward María's face. The fear behind the question wasn't wild; it wasn't the frantic terror she'd known under Overhaul. It was quieter, softer, the embedded fear of someone who had been hurt enough times that even kindness felt dangerous. Her past taught her that nothing came without pain. That every promise held a blade behind it. That every touch was followed by something cold, sharp, and punishing.
María's smile changed not fading, not weakening, but softening further into something deeper. Something that held understanding and sorrow and fierce, protective love all at once. She shifted Eri slightly in her arms, just enough so she could stroke the back of the child's head with gentle fingers.
"No, cariño," she whispered. "It won't hurt. Not even a little."
Her free hand lifted, palm facing upward. A soft glow began to spread from the center of it not harsh, not blinding, but warm and golden, like the first gentle light of dawn brushing against closed eyelids. The glow pulsed once, twice, in a slow rhythm that felt like a heartbeat steady and safe.
Eri's eyes widened slightly, her breath hitching in her throat. But she didn't recoil. She didn't turn away. She watched, mesmerized and afraid, clutching María's kimono with both hands as though anchoring herself to the warmth she had found there.
María turned her hand so Eri could see it clearly.
"This is my power," she murmured softly. "It heals. It warms. It protects."
Her smile widened just a breath. "It only hurts the bad things. Never the good."
Eri blinked, her small chest rising in a trembling inhale.
"…Like Overhaul…?" she whispered.
María nodded gently.
"Yes. Him, and those like him."
Another flicker of light shimmered in her palm.
Eri stared at it stared so hard her eyes began to water, though she wasn't crying. Not yet. She leaned a fraction closer, as though pulled by something in the glow. Curiosity, faint but present, bloomed in her gaze like the smallest flower daring to push through winter frost.
She swallowed, tiny voice barely forming the next question.
"…If you… make them go away…"
Her fingers clenched more tightly into the kimono.
"…will I still be me…?"
The question pierced the air, soft but devastating.
María's heart warmed with both ache and tenderness.
"Oh, mi pequeña…" she breathed, leaning her forehead lightly against Eri's white hair, careful not to overwhelm her. "You'll be even more you."
Eri's breath shook.
"The scars, the bruises, the marks… they're not you," María whispered. "They were put on you. Forced on you. But your smile… your courage… your horn…"
She nudged her own horn playfully against Eri's.
"Those are yours. They're the parts that matter."
The golden light shimmered brighter.
Eri stared at it for a long moment. Her fingers loosened just a little relaxing enough that they no longer dug painfully into the fabric. Her tiny hand hesitated, then slowly unfolded from the blanket. Her arm trembled, not from fear but from the enormous weight of choosing something for herself.
She reached out slowly, timidly and hovered her hand over María's glowing one.
Not touching.
Not yet.
But close.
Close enough that María felt the question in her trembling fingertips:
Can I trust this?
Can I trust you?
María tilted her head, her voice a warm whisper.
"Take your time, sweetheart. I'm right here."
Eri's fingers curled delicately into the hem of her new sundress, rubbing the soft fabric between her thumb and forefinger as though she were testing its reality, afraid it might dissolve the moment she blinked. The sunlight filtering through the trees painted faint golden lines across the fabric, illuminating the embroidered flowers in soft glimmers. For the first time, she was wearing something made for her something meant to comfort and brighten her rather than restrain or hide her.
María held her gently, arms wrapped around her small frame, warm as a hearth after years spent in cold concrete. She didn't speak, didn't rush her, simply breathed calmly while waiting for Eri's thoughts to settle.
Eventually, Eri lifted her gaze from the dress, her eyes still shimmering from earlier tears. Her lips trembled slightly with nervousness before she pressed them together, trying to find courage in the steady warmth of the arms around her. She lowered her head, chin dipping toward her chest as though embarrassed by her own question.
"I… um…"
Her voice cracked, tiny and fragile.
"I don't… know what to call you…"
The confession drifted into the air like a feather, weightless but delicate enough to crumble with one wrong tone.
María's breath softened, her smile warming even further, though her eyes remained closed in their serene expression. She lifted one hand and brushed her knuckles lightly across Eri's cheek, the gesture so gentle that it felt like a whisper of warmth rather than touch.
"Well, cariño…" she murmured, her voice warm as summer honey, "my name is María."
Eri whispered the name under her breath, tasting it like something fragile and precious.
"Ma… ria…"
María's smile brightened at the shy attempt. She leaned in, lowering her forehead until it touched Eri's ever so softly, their horns brushing in a tiny, affectionate tap.
"But," she continued, her tone deepening with tenderness, "if you want… you can also call me Mama."
Eri's entire body went still.
Not tense.
Not afraid.
Just still, as though the world around her had paused to allow the meaning of the word to settle into her heart.
"M… Ma… ma…?"
Her voice trembled around the syllables, foreign and familiar all at once.
Her breath shook, her grip tightening in María's kimono, not from fear but from the overwhelming ache that swelled in her chest. A word she had never been allowed to shape. A word taken from her long before she could understand what it meant. A word she had heard in echoes, in dreams, in stolen glimpses of other children.
A word she thought she would never be allowed to say.
María stroked the back of her head, hand gentle, steady, comforting.
"Yes, mi pequeña," she whispered. "If you want. If it feels right. I won't ever take it away from you."
Eri's breath hitched.
Her tiny fingers curled tighter into the fabric.
Her face pressed against María's neck.
Her shoulders trembled not with fear this time, but with a deep, aching longing she had carried silently for years.
A tiny sound left her—soft, broken, but full.
"…M-Mama…"
María closed her arms fully around her then, pulling her into a warm embrace that felt like the answer to a prayer Eri never knew how to speak.
"I'm here," María murmured, voice thick with tenderness. "And I'm not going anywhere."
Eri didn't sob this time.
She didn't cry loudly.
But the tears that slid down her cheeks were warm and gentle, falling in slow, silent drops that soaked into María's kimono.
After a long, quiet moment, María pulled back slightly, brushing the tears away with the pad of her thumb.
"Now," she whispered, placing a playful kiss on Eri's forehead, "we need to get you some real clothes too. Ones you choose."
She snapped her fingers gently, and Eri's blanket finished settling into the shape of the sundress.
"Would you like to keep this dress on for our trip," she asked, "or change into another one I make for you?"
Eri looked down at the dress, smoothing the fabric across her knees.
"I… I like this one…" she whispered shyly.
María beamed.
"Then this one it is."
She lifted Eri securely in her arms.
"Shall we go, mi pequeña?"
And for the first time in her life, Eri nodded—small, tentative, but willing.
"…Yes… Mama."