The light was endless.
Golden, gentle, and warm—yet it pulsed with something ancient, something vast.
Luca floated weightlessly in the radiance. There was no ground beneath him, no horizon, only the slow, rhythmic thrum of life itself. The warmth pressed softly against his skin, seeping into his bones. It wasn't the warmth of fire, but of sunlight filtering through leaves—the warmth of creation itself.
And then, amidst that silence, came a voice.
"Child… do you remember me?"
The sound wasn't heard—it resonated inside him, weaving through every thought, every heartbeat. Soft, kind, but burdened with a sorrow that made his chest tighten.
Luca's brows furrowed. His lips parted.
"Who?" he asked, his voice small, uncertain.
The voice lingered, like a sigh carried by a breeze.
"I suppose you don't, huh…"
Something in that tone made his throat ache. There was disappointment there—not anger, but the gentle sadness of a mother whose child had forgotten her face.
