The hall waited in silence. The lanterns glowed softly, casting long shadows that bent toward the far door. Lyra stood with her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her breath steadying. After the deceiver, whose arrogance had chilled her, she felt unprepared for whatever soul would come next. She had not yet learned how to protect her heart.
The door stirred. Slowly, it opened, and a woman stepped through. She did not stumble. She did not walk with small, careful steps; her hands were folded neatly against her chest. Her face was lined with age, her hair streaked with silver, but her eyes held no bitterness. They were soft, full of the kind of tiredness that came not from anger but from a life spent giving.
Lyra's throat tightened as soon as she saw her. There was something familiar about that quiet strength.
Kaelen's voice was steady, though softer than usual. "You stand before the mirror. Here you will see the truth of your life."
The woman inclined her head respectfully. "If that is what must be." Her voice was gentle, warm, like the voice of someone who had comforted children for many years.
The mirror shimmered to life. The surface cleared, and a small cottage appeared, nestled at the edge of a field. Inside, a young woman rocked a baby in her arms, her face flushed with exhaustion but glowing with joy. Another child tugged at her skirt, hungry for attention. She smiled at them both, though her shoulders sagged under the weight of responsibility.
Lyra leaned closer, her chest aching. The young mother in the mirror was the soul now standing before them. She had been radiant once, her laughter filling the small home even when her hands were raw from work.
The images shifted. The woman's husband left one day and never returned. Whether taken by war, accident, or choice, the mirror gave no explanation. What remained was her alone, two children clinging to her as she pressed on with quiet determination. She worked the fields by day, sewed clothes by night, and still found time to whisper stories to her little ones before bed.
Lyra felt tears press at her eyes. She had seen cruelty, lies, rage, but this was different. This was devotion so steady it almost hurt to witness.
The woman in the hall watched silently, her hands folded. Her lips quivered faintly, but she did not cry.
The mirror pulsed again. Years passed. The children grew, tall and strong, dressed in clothes their mother had patched countless times. She gave them the best she could, going hungry so they could eat, staying awake so they could sleep. The children smiled when they were young, but as they grew, their faces hardened. They wanted more than the small cottage, more than their mother's stories and patched clothes.
The mirror showed a boy—her son—arguing with her. His voice was sharp, accusing her of holding him back. Her daughter turned her face away, ashamed of the simple life her mother provided.
The older woman standing in the hall closed her eyes as the memory played. Lyra bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.
The mirror did not stop. It showed the children leaving. First, the son stormed out with angry words. Then the daughter left in silence but with disdain in her eyes. The mother stood at the doorway, hands trembling, lips pressed together as if to hold back a cry. She whispered blessings as they walked away, even though they never turned back to hear them.
Lyra's tears spilt freely now. "They left her. After everything, they left her."
The mother in the hall finally spoke, her voice calm. "They had their lives to live. I could not hold them forever."
The mirror revealed the years that followed. She worked still, though slower, her hands stiff, her back bent. She cooked meals no one came to eat, told stories to an empty room, and waited by the door for footsteps that never returned.
On her final night, she lay alone in her bed, the small home dimly lit by a dying lantern. Her hands clutched a tattered scarf she had once sewn for her daughter. Her lips moved in prayer, whispering hope for her children's happiness. And then she closed her eyes and did not wake.
The mirror stilled.
Lyra sobbed openly, unable to contain it. "She gave them everything. She gave them all she had. And they forgot her."
Kaelen's voice was low, steady, but there was a weight in it even he could not mask. "This is her truth. A life of sacrifice, love without measure, and sorrow unreturned."
The woman lifted her eyes to Kaelen, then to Lyra. She smiled gently. "Do not cry for me. I chose my path. Love is not wasted, even if it is not returned. My children… they lived. That is enough."
Lyra shook her head fiercely. "No. It is not enough. You deserved more. You deserved love in return, not to be left alone."
The mother stepped closer to the mirror, her reflection gazing back with the same soft strength. "Perhaps. But love is not a trade. It is a gift. I gave mine freely. I do not regret it."
The hall grew very still. The lanterns dimmed, then brightened again, as though even the light honoured her words. The shelves of bottles pulsed gently, a soft glow like a heartbeat.
Kaelen regarded her with a rare solemnity. "You carried a weight heavier than most. You bore it without bitterness. That is not forgotten here."
For a moment, silence filled the hall. Then the woman turned toward the far door, her smile unwavering. "Then I am ready."
As she began to fade, Lyra cried out, "Wait! Please—before you go, tell me. Was it worth it?"
The woman's eyes softened. She looked at Lyra as though she were her own daughter, lost and in need of comfort. "Every moment of love is worth it. Even if it leaves you with empty hands."
Then she was gone.
Lyra fell to her knees, shaking. Her tears fell to the polished floor, vanishing into the shadows. "How can the world be so cruel? How can children forget a mother who gave them everything?"
Kaelen stood above her, silent for a long moment. Finally, he spoke. "Not every heart understands the value of sacrifice until it is too late. Some never understand at all. But the hall sees what the world forgets. The hall remembers."
Lyra pressed her palms against the cold floor, trembling. She wanted to believe that was enough. She wanted to believe the woman's love mattered, even if her children never looked back.
Above them, unseen, Aurelius stirred. The lanterns flickered once more, and Lyra felt a faint warmth brush against her grief, as though the hall itself reached out to comfort her.
The door at the far end glowed faintly. Another soul would come soon. The work of judgment was endless. But in that moment, Lyra carried the weight of one mother's gentle heart, and it pressed upon her like a truth she could never forget.