Inside Vanitas's grand celestial chambers, the air shimmered faintly with divine energy.
The room was enormous, arched ceilings adorned with gold-traced murals, artifacts that floated all around, and a massive bed at the center, draped in silks that glowed faintly like captured starlight.
And right now, in one corner, next to a full-length mirror framed with spiraling vines of silver and crystal, dozens of outfits floated in midair.
They moved as if alive, shifting and spinning around, each more extravagant than the last.
Robes lined with golden thread, tailored suits with celestial embroidery, capes that glimmered like midnight skies, and royal crowns that could have belonged to emperors.
Kafka too stood there awkwardly, watching his mother pace in front of him like a painter judging her unfinished masterpiece.
"Hmm...no, no, this one's far too solemn." She muttered, waving her hand toward a black-and-gold outfit that immediately floated away. "And that one—ugh, too regal, you'll look like you're about to start your own empire. Oh, and that one's a tragedy of color coordination, what was I even thinking?"
She flicked her fingers again, and another robe, deep crimson with a glimmering sash, hovered in front of Kafka before she made a face.
"No, not this one either. Too dramatic. You'd look like you're about to declare a duel at a royal ball."
Kafka raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly.
"You do realize all of these make me look like some kind of prince, right? You're not exactly giving me much of a choice here."
"Of course I do!" Vanitas shot him a look, part playful, part exasperated. "After all, every one of these is made to suit your divine heritage. You are not going to attend a heavenly ceremony dressed like a mortal commoner."
"...No jeans. No T-shirts. No mortal nonsense."
"I didn't say jeans, I just said maybe something a little less...sparkly?" Kafka chuckled, crossing his arms.
Vanitas ignored him completely, summoning another outfit, a radiant white golden dress that seemed to hum faintly with energy. She floated it toward him, tilting her head as she imagined the fit.
"Hmm...maybe this one. It's elegant but not too loud."
She leaned closer, squinting, then frowned again.
"No, wait, it makes your shoulders look too broad. Not this one either...But what about this?"
"No, no, that one makes you look too royal—they'll think I'm introducing a new god."
"This one—ugh, no. Too formal. You look like a priest."
"That one, absolutely not. You look like a painting that came to life."
Kafka sighed, glancing at the growing pile of discarded robes floating behind her.
"At this rate, Mom, you're going to start pulling clothes from other universes."
"Don't tempt me, sweetheart, I might actually do it." She twirled her finger, making another dress appear, this one glimmering faintly with runes.
"Why do I feel like you're enjoying this more than necessary?" He chuckled under his breath.
"Oh, I absolutely am." She said without shame, floating yet another robe over to him. "When else do I get to dress up my son for a divine festival? You have no idea how long I've waited for this."
As she said this, Kafka noticed that Vanitas genuinely looked joyful as she worked, every little flick of her wrist, every thoughtful hum while she circled him, it was clear she wasn't just fussing for the sake of appearance.
Kafka couldn't help but smile faintly. She looked so...happy. So absorbed in something that was, for once, completely ordinary.
It reminded him of scenes he'd often watched back in his old world.
Mothers fussing over their children in clothing stores, holding up shirts and dresses against them, debating out loud over colors or fits, while the child stood there groaning and complaining.
He used to watch those moments with quiet envy, thinking to himself how warm they looked, even when the kid was rolling his eyes.
He'd always wondered what it might feel like, to be that child whose mother was too invested in what he wore, who scolded him for looking sloppy, and refused to let him pick his own outfit.
And now, somehow, here he was, standing like a living mannequin, being dressed and fussed over by a goddess who also happened to be his mother.
But even though they'd been standing here for what had to be at least forty-five minutes, he didn't regret a single second.
Watching her hum to herself, spinning fabrics around was oddly comforting. It was such a simple, human thing, something he'd never thought he'd get to experience, and he found himself smiling softly, even when she didn't notice.
Still, a part of him was worried they were going to miss the event entirely if she didn't settle on something soon.
So while she was busy rejecting yet another gilded robe, Kafka quietly reached toward one of the simpler outfits resting near the edge of the room—a plain white shirt, silky and faintly glowing, as if it had been woven from starlight itself, paired with black pants and sleek shoes.
He slipped into them quickly while Vanitas's back was turned, and when she finally turned to grab another robe, he said,
"What about this one? Doesn't this look good?"
Vanitas began speaking without even looking.
"What? No, Kafka, don't touch anything, just leave it to—"
She froze mid-sentence. Her eyes widened as she finally looked at him.
For a moment, she didn't say anything and just stared as her son stood there in front of the mirror, while thinking the simplicity of his outfit only making his sharp features and natural presence stand out more.
"Wow, Kafka..." She blinked, then let out a soft, stunned laugh. "Even though it's so simple, why does it look so good on you?"
"Maybe it's just like what I said earlier." He replied calmly. "Just because you're a powerful being doesn't mean you have to live in an extravagant palace. Sometimes, simplicity brings out what's already there. As long as you're confident in who you are, even the plainest things shine."
For a moment, Vanitas was silent, then her lips curled into a bright grin.
"That's my son...That's my son right there!" She exclaimed proudly, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him lightly. "You're finally starting to think like me! You're embracing the philosophy of vanity itself! I'm so proud of you!"
Kafka laughed softly. "I wouldn't say I'm embracing vanity. Just...practicality."
"Whatever!" She said with a wave of her hand, still beaming. Then she gasped suddenly. "But wait, your hair!"
He blinked. "What about my—"
Before he could finish, she was already behind him, comb in hand, her fingers running through his hair with motherly care.
"It's a festival, Kafka. You can't show up looking like you just rolled out of bed."
Kafka sighed but didn't protest. Truthfully, he enjoyed it, the gentle tug of her fingers, the care she took in smoothing every strand.
And as she worked, he glanced at the floating clothes still orbiting the mirror and asked,
"Where did you even get all these? Is there some divine clothing shop in the heavens or something?"
Vanitas laughed softly, tugging gently at a lock of his hair. "Oh, no, no. These aren't from any shop."
He frowned, curious. "Then what—"
"These..." She said proudly, placing a hand on her chest. "...are all mine. I made them."
Kafka blinked, staring at her in surprise.
"You...made these? All of them?"
She nodded, her expression softening into something fond and wistful.
"While watching you grow up, I made clothes for you constantly. I even have outfits for you as a toddler, as a three-year-old, as a five-year-old, teenager...every stage of your life."
"Even though I couldn't give them to you back then, I wanted to create them anyway. It was my way of being close to you, of thinking about you. Every stitch, every thread, was done with you in mind."
She smiled tenderly, brushing a strand of his hair aside.
"And this outfit you're wearing now? I made it recently a few months back. I noticed how you like simple things, and I wanted to make something that fit you—not the image others expect of you."
Kafka's chest tightened at her words. He suddenly realized just how much she must have missed him all those years.
How deeply she must have longed to care for him, to do small, ordinary things a mother does.
He felt a faint melancholy, but then forced a smile, reminding himself that those days of distance were gone now. They had each other again, and that was all that mattered.
Vanitas then finished fixing his hair and adjusting his collar, stepping back to admire her work.
"Perfect." She said warmly. Then, before he could react, she suddenly pushed him toward the mirror.
"Look at you." She said, standing right behind him, her hands on his shoulders as she beamed. "So handsome! So charming! So cute! How can anyone look this beautiful!?"
Kafka rolled his eyes with a small laugh, but she wasn't done.
"I swear..." She went on dramatically. "...all the daughters of the true gods are going to lose their minds when they see you! They'll be falling over themselves, drooling, blushing, making excuses to talk to you—"
Then she froze. Her expression shifted abruptly from pride to pure horror.
"Wait."
"Wait what?" Kafka blinked.
"Those whores are already after you!" Her eyes narrowed dangerously.
"...Excuse me?"
"I already saw it!" She cried out, pacing in agitation. "Every time they meet you, I see it in their eyes, the way they look at you like you're some divine buffet they want to devour! It's unacceptable!"
Kafka just stared at her, utterly bemused.
"No, no, this is bad." She continued frantically, ignoring him. "If they see you like this, looking so good, they'll try to steal you away from me!"
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Mom—"
"I can't allow that!" She declared. "We need an outfit that makes you look bad! Something plain, something unappealing!"
"...You just said I look perfect."
"I know! That's the problem!"
Vanitas began pacing again, muttering to herself.
"But what outfit could possibly make you look bad? You looks good in everything! Ugh, this is terrible!"
Kafka didn't want to go through another cycle of outfit chaos. So, he sighed, then gently reached out and took Vanitas's hand in his own.
"It's alright, Mom." He said, his tone calm but reassuring. "Even if anyone tries to pounce on me or do anything stupid, I'll be fine. I mean, come on. With you around, who's going to dare?"
Vanitas blinked, then her expression lit up like a sunrise.
"You're absolutely right!" She said triumphantly, puffing out her chest. "With me around, who would dare lay a single finger on you, Kafka? They can even gang up on you for all I care..." She struck a dramatic pose "...and I'd still kick them all away myself!"
Kafka chuckled quietly, watching as she clasped his hand proudly, her earlier dilemma forgotten in an instant.
They then began to head toward the door together, Vanitas humming like she'd just been praised with the highest honor.
But just as Kafka passed her enormous, pristine bed—he slowed to a stop.
A strange, familiar feeling tugged at him, quiet but deep, like the ghost of a memory trying to surface.
He turned to look at it more closely.
"Weird..." He murmured. "I don't know why, but...I feel like I've been here before. There's this...nostalgic feeling. Like I have some kind of connection with this bed."
Vanitas, who had stopped beside him, raised an eyebrow, then gave him a mischievous little smirk.
"Oh, is that so, Kafka? Maybe it's because you want to get into the bed with me." She leaned closer, lowering her voice teasingly. "Maybe that's exactly what you're trying to say."
Kafka gave her an unimpressed stare, then stepped back as she reached for his arm.
"No, Mom. Not at all. It's just...a strange feeling. Like it's familiar somehow."
For a brief moment, she looked almost disappointed, then her expression softened into something thoughtful.
She folded her arms, gaze distant as she remarked, and revealed,
"Ah...that's probably because this is where you were made...and where you were born."
"Huh? The place I was born?" Kafka froze.
Vanitas nodded slowly, her tone becoming gentle and filled with nostalgia.
"This is the place where I conceived you, where the universe gave you to me as my child...It's also where I first held you in my arms after you were born."
Kafka blinked, staring at the bed again in stunned silence as she continued softly,
"That connection you feel—it's your natal bond. The energy that once surrounded you when you first entered existence. You're feeling that resonance again."
He nodded absentmindedly, his expression unreadable as he absorbed her words.
This was where he'd first existed, where his life had begun.
The realization made the entire room feel heavier, sacred in a way he hadn't noticed before.
Seeing his reaction, Vanitas smiled faintly, though a rosy blush crept across her cheeks.
"And you know Kafka..." She added shyly. "...even though I did birth you here...I did everything alone. Which means, technically speaking..." She coughed softly "...I'm still a virgin."
Kafka's head snapped toward her so fast it almost hurt. "What—Mom, please—"
But she kept talking, now rambling with a strange mix of bashfulness and divine pride.
"And since my body regenerates completely, well...certain parts are as good as new, you know? So if you wanted to—"
Kafka's eyes widened in pure horror.
"Nope!" He said quickly, grabbing her wrist and dragging her toward the exit. "Nope, we're not doing this conversation. Not today. Let's go. The festival's waiting."
"But Kafka—"
"Portal, please!"
Vanitas pouted dramatically, realizing her playful advance had failed. But instead of opening a glowing portal, she grinned suddenly, a spark of mischief flashing in her eyes.
"Oh, we're not taking a portal." She said slyly, leaning closer. "We're taking another kind of ride."
Kafka stopped mid-step, looking at her suspiciously. "...Another ride?"
"You'll see." She said in a singsong voice, her tone full of mysterious delight.
And with that, before Kafka could even protest—the world around them began to shift again, light curling, the air trembling, as whatever surprise she had in mind began to take form.