He punched the melting face, smashing it into a puddle of sludge. The sludge fell to the floor, still writhing, still making that voice.
"Dad, you hit me..."
He threw another punch.
Then another.
And another.
He did not know how many times he punched it. He only knew that the puddle of sludge finally stopped moving, stopped making sounds, stopped calling him Dad.
He lowered his head and looked at his hands.
They were trembling.
They were covered in blood—the sludge's blood, and his own blood from where his nails had pierced his palms.
He dropped to his knees.
Pure white light filled the compartment again.
Elena still stood before that door.
Her son was still in front of her, his hunger-sunken face still looking at her.
"Mom, why didn't you come find me?"
The hand gripping her silver sword trembled.
She knew she should bring it down.
As long as she did, she would win.
But she could not raise her sword. That was her son, the son she had carried for ten months before giving birth to him.
She had watched him learn to walk, learn to speak, learn to call her Mom.
She had watched him carry his backpack to school for the first time, watched her get called in because he had gotten into a fight for the first time, watched him fall in love for the first time, watched him tell her for the first time, "Mom, I want to follow my own path."
How could she possibly bring it down?
"Mom."
Her son called out again.
Something in those sunken eyes was going out.
"Mom, I don't blame you."
She raised her head.
"I know you couldn't come. It was so far away, there were so many angels, and everything was such a