Chapter Text
Homura dreamed she was falling.
Light and shadow bled together—soft, indistinct, like memories melting in warm water. She heard voices, or maybe just echoes: Madoka’s hand reaching, a smile dissolving into radiance. Then everything fractured, and the world snapped into silence.
Her vision blurred at once. The room around her was nothing but gentle shapes, pale and unfocused. She blinked, slow and disoriented, until instinct made her drag her hand across the bedside table. Her fingers brushed familiar plastic. Glasses. She slipped them on, breath trembling as the sterile white ceiling sharpened into place.
A hospital. Cool fluorescent light filtered through a frosted window, washing the room in quiet gray. Machines hummed steadily beside her. The sheets were stiff, pressed too neatly to feel lived in. The stillness was heavy—manufactured, curated.
Her heart lurched when she looked at her hand. Her finger—the one that should’ve held a soul gem ring—was bare. She checked her other hand, pulse quick and uneven. Nothing. No ring. No glimmer. No trace.
The absence was a punch.
A wish… there was a wish, wasn’t there? The thought drifted through her mind like a whisper she wasn’t supposed to hear. A light. Hers. Mine. Then nothing. The memory refused to take shape, slipping away every time she tried to grasp it.
Her chest ached—phantom and real all at once. She pressed a hand to the scar that had followed her through every timeline, even now. Her hair was still braided from sleep; she undid it slowly, fingers shaky, letting it fall over her shoulders. Standing was harder. Her legs trembled under her weight, the sudden weakness sending a wave of humiliation up her spine. She used to freeze time. Now she could barely steady herself.
Her eyesight had collapsed back into its old frailty. Her body felt small again, breakable. Magic hadn’t just disappeared—it had been erased.
When the hospital discharged her, the city outside felt unreal. Mitakihara glowed under soft haze, the calm too perfect, too precise. Electric cars whispered across immaculate streets. Pedestrians moved with quiet purpose, untouched by grief.
She walked into the small apartment arranged for her—one room, clean, sparse. A single warm lamp softened the otherwise sterile space. She steadied herself on the edge of the desk, legs still quivering.
The hum of the city felt distant.
No magic.
No grief.
Just ordinary peace—so calm it made her chest tighten.
Peace so ordinary it frightened her.
Days crawled forward. The city outside her apartment hummed with its curated stillness—electric trains gliding, soft electric nights, a world too peaceful to feel real. Each day blurred as Homura forced her body to remember how to move. Short, shaky walks. Careful stretches that left her trembling. The weakness was humiliating, but the alternative—lying still in silence—was worse.
Every morning she checked the window, watching students pass by on the sidewalks below. Ordinary, unburdened faces. She wanted to know if Madoka was safe—if Sayaka, Kyoko, Mami were truly alive here—but she couldn’t even make it down the stairs without her chest tightening. That helplessness knotted into something sharp, then refined itself into resolve. Recover. See them with your own eyes.
A week later, she stood outside her new classroom. The hallway’s fluorescent lights cast a clean, pale glow over everything. This time, I don’t have to be at odds with anyone, she told herself. This time… maybe I can live normally.
The classroom was lit entirely by cool fluorescent panels, bright but with no hint of natural light. Translucent windows, projection screens, the quiet buzz of electricity—everything too neat, too calm. Homura stepped inside with practiced posture and a carefully neutral expression.
But when she saw them—Madoka, Sayaka, Kyoko—alive, laughing, untouched by grief—her pulse stumbled. Relief washed through her so hard it nearly unsteadied her. They’re here. It’s really them.
Ms. Saotome smiled. “Why don’t you tell your classmates about yourself?”
Homura bowed with perfect form. “My name is Akemi Homura. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Her voice was polite, soft, but hollowed by precision.
Ms. Saotome wrote her name on the smartboard. “Akemi has been in the hospital for some time. I want everyone to help her out as she adjusts, okay?”
During the break, a few curious girls approached. “So, Akemi, what school were you at before?”
“Any club activities? Hobbies?”
Homura’s breath hitched. “I… um—” The words slipped away like water. You rehearsed this. Why can’t you speak? Her thoughts scattered, her pulse quickened. The soft hum of the classroom lights pressed in on her.
Before the silence could grow uncomfortable, a gentle voice cut through.
“Akemi?” Madoka stood beside her desk, hands folded, expression soft. “You have to go to the nurse’s office, don’t you? For your medicine?”
Homura blinked, startled. Her gaze drifted to Madoka’s hand—bare. No ring. No magic. So it really is gone. She forced a composed nod. “Ah… right. I should.”
Madoka smiled shyly. “Then I’ll take you. I’m the nurse’s aide.” She turned to the others, cheeks pink. “Sorry—Akemi needs her medicine. We’ll talk later.”
“Oh! Sure—see you later, Akemi,” one said.
Homura followed Madoka into the hallway. Their footsteps echoed softly; diffuse daylight filtered in from the upper walkway’s glass ceiling above the adjacent hall.
Madoka murmured, “Sorry about them. Everyone’s just curious.”
“It’s fine. Thank you.” Homura’s voice came out stiff, too formal.
Madoka giggled. “You don’t have to be so serious. We’re classmates. I’m Kaname Madoka—just call me Madoka, okay?”
Homura hesitated. “…Then, thank you… Madoka.” The name tasted fragile.
Madoka brightened. “And can I call you Homura?”
Homura tensed. “If you want. I… don’t usually get called that.”
Madoka’s smile softened. “It’s a nice name. Warm—like a flame.” She flushed, laughing. “Sorry, that’s weird.”
“…Not weird,” Homura murmured. “Just… kind.”
In the nurse’s office, cool white lights gleamed faintly overhead, the frosted interior window diffusing only the building’s ambient glow rather than sunlight. Homura lay on the cot as Madoka fetched her medicine. The sterile scent, the orderly drawers, the soft hum of machinery—all of it felt too clean.
If I close my eyes… will this disappear? Will I wake in the dark again? The pills were bitter on her tongue, grounding but not comforting.
Flashes hit her without warning: Mami’s fall. Sayaka’s scream. Kyoko’s lonely stand. Madoka dissolving into light. Her breath stumbled.
Those lives… those losses… only I remember.
During physical education, Homura was reminded—harshly—of how fragile her body had become in this world of calm air and fluorescent stillness. Only a few stretches into warmups on the outdoor track and her chest seized, lungs burning as if the sun itself weighed on her ribs. She bent over, hands braced on her knees, breath shallow and uneven.
“Is she really that weak?”
“She can’t even jog a lap…”
“Such a pretty face, too. We thought she’d be strong.” A light laugh followed. “Guess looks can be deceiving.”
“Hey, cut it out,” another girl snapped. “She’s been bedridden for almost a year—what’d you expect?”
Their voices carried across the open field, each comment a pinprick in the hot, too-bright air. There was no gym, no echo—just the exposed stretch of track and the sting of being watched from every angle. I once moved through armies of nightmares without breathing hard, she thought. And now I can’t even survive warmups. The teacher finally waved her to the sidelines, and Homura retreated beneath the shade of a nearby tree, the only sliver of cool relief in the entire field. She pulled a towel over her head, hiding her face as her breath scraped raw in her throat. Her expression stayed blank, but humiliation burned hot beneath it.
Madoka passed by with a bottle of water, the sunlight catching softly on her hair. “You should take it easy,” she said, voice low—gentle enough to cut through the sting.
Homura accepted it without lifting her gaze. “…Thank you.” For a moment, the warmth in Madoka’s tone eased the tightness in her chest. Then it faded, leaving only the familiar quiet and the hum of the city beyond the schoolyard.
After school, Homura walked alone, the late-afternoon light stretching long shadows across the courtyard. The city’s curated stillness clung to everything—the quiet hum of distant traffic, the soft glow reflecting off glass walkways. When the school gates came into view, she stopped.
There they were—Madoka and Sayaka chatting under the pale sky, Kyoko leaning lazily against the rail, Mami waiting with that gentle, steady smile. All four of them together, perfectly ordinary, the picture of a life untouched by grief.
Mami…? The sight hit her like a breach in reality. The memory of Mami’s death sliced through her—sudden, vivid. Yet here she stood, warm and alive, the world holding her as if nothing had ever been taken. If Mami is alive… if Kyoko is alive… then Nagisa…? The hope rose too quickly, sharp enough to hurt.
Her pulse stumbled. Her chest tightened. The air felt thin, unreal. Not now… not here… The world tilted as the light blurred and the silhouettes of the girls rushed toward her, distorted by her failing vision.
Then the ground slipped away, and everything went dark.
“Homura!”
By the time she opened her eyes again, she was back in the nurse’s office. The cool hum of the fluorescent lights pressed gently against the stillness, a sterile calm that felt almost too clean.
“You collapsed outside,” the nurse said softly. “Some classmates brought you in.”
Homura turned her head. The girls lingered nearby—concerned, but with the distant politeness of people who didn’t know her yet. Madoka sat closest, hands fidgeting against her skirt.
“Um… Homura… are you okay?”
Sayaka scratched her cheek. “You really freaked us out for a sec.”
Kyoko leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. “If you’re that frail, don’t push yourself.”
Mami smiled gently. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
Their voices were soft, tentative—kindness without history. Homura felt that distance like a thin pane of glass between them. They don’t know me here. Not yet. But they’re alive… they’re here…
“…Thank you,” she whispered. Only I remember. The thought left a hollow ache in her chest.
The nurse’s office felt too still, the world outside moving in muffled fragments. Laughter drifted faintly from the courtyard beyond the frosted window—soft, weightless, untouched by anything cruel. Is this peace earned… or something fragile that could shatter the moment I breathe too hard?
Her body trembled—part exhaustion, part the quiet terror of not knowing where she fit in a world that had buried all its scars.
That night, she dreamed again: the same endless sky, the same distant radiance. Madoka’s voice floated somewhere just beyond reach—warm, familiar, and blurred like a memory sinking underwater. She woke before dawn, breath catching, her lashes damp.
The city outside her window glowed blue in the early light—soft, still, too perfect.
For the first time, Homura wondered if memory itself wasn’t a gift at all, but the price of surviving a miracle.
The next day passed quietly, softened by the same dreamlike rhythm that carried the city from morning to dusk. When the final bell rang, Homura packed her things with her usual deliberate calm. But as she reached the door, a voice cut through the low hum of the classroom lights.
“Homura!” Madoka hurried up to her, Sayaka and Kyoko trailing a few steps behind. “Would you like to come hang out with us after school?”
Homura blinked, taken off guard. “…With you? And them?” Her voice wavered despite her best effort to keep it steady. “Why?”
Madoka tilted her head, expression gentle beneath the soft fluorescent glow. “You seem lonely. I thought… maybe it would be nice if you made some new friends.”
The words struck something deep and raw. Friends… after everything… Her fingers tightened around her bag strap, the gesture small but tense.
Kyoko shrugged, half-looking away. “Don’t get the wrong idea. But if Madoka says you should come along, then fine.”
“…All right,” Homura murmured. “I’ll come.”
They led her through Mitakihara’s elevated glass walkways, the city mirrored beneath them—soft reflections, pale sky, the hum of electric rails drifting through the air. The curated calm of the world pressed in from every side. Eventually, they reached a sleek, modern apartment tower washed in warm evening light.
When the door opened, Homura froze.
Mami greeted them with her usual composed warmth. A small girl peeked from behind her, then tugged at her sleeve.
“Welcome home, everyone!” chirped Nagisa.
Homura’s breath hitched. Nagisa… too? Her vision blurred—not from weakness, but from the surge of memory clawing at her: Charlotte’s teeth, Mami’s body falling, the witch’s grin. And now here Nagisa stood, alive, bright-eyed, smiling up at Mami as if none of it had ever happened.
Homura’s knees buckled.
“Homura!” Madoka caught her before she could hit the floor. “You look pale…”
Homura clung to Madoka’s sleeve, trembling. “…This world… it’s too much.” Her voice cracked under the weight of emotion she couldn’t name.
Sayaka frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Kyoko raised a brow, suspicion flickering. “Yeah… you talk like you know something we don’t.”
Mami’s concern deepened. They all looked at her—but none of them understood.
Homura stared down, pulse unsteady. Of course they don’t understand. Only I remember. Panic crawled up her spine. “N-no, that’s not what I meant,” she forced out. “It’s just… my heart condition. The surprise got to me.”
Her excuse wavered, but in this gentle world, it was enough.
Sympathy eased their expressions.
Madoka squeezed Homura’s hand, warm and grounding. “Don’t worry, Homura. I’ll stay by your side.”
Sayaka smirked. “Already spoiling the new girl?”
Madoka’s face flushed crimson. “N-no, it’s not like that! I just—she looked so lonely!”
Mami clapped her hands lightly, her voice warm and steady. “All right, that’s enough teasing. Come in; I’ll make tea.”
The apartment glowed with soft golden light, the faint scent of steeping tea drifting through the air—ordinary, peaceful, impossibly gentle in a way that made Homura’s heart ache.
That night, Homura sat by her window, knees drawn close, with her lamp switched off, the city’s pale blue glow spilling across her like an old wound catching the light. Mitakihara’s stillness pressed against the glass—soft, careful, too pristine to feel alive. Her reflection hovered faintly in the pane, half-formed in the dimness: a girl caught between timelines, between worlds, between selves.
“If this world is real,” she murmured, voice thin, “why does it feel like a lie?” Her fingers curled against her chest, right over the familiar ache of a scar no one here knew existed. “You’re alive. Smiling. Safe. And I should be happy… but it feels like I lost you again.”
“Madoka,” she whispered, almost afraid to hear the name aloud in a world that had never spoken it in grief, “you’d tell me I did the right thing. You always believed in me.” A breath—unsteady, half a laugh, half a sob—escaped. “But I loved you. More than time. More than this world. More than myself. And I’d do it all again if it meant seeing you one last time.” Her voice trembled. “And still… I wanted more. I wanted you to look at me the way I looked at you—just once. To know you saw me.”
The confession slipped out before she could stop it. Silence flooded in, heavy as the fluorescent hum seeping through the window from the city below.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “That’s what ruined everything. Wanting more. Wanting you.” She stared at her hands—steady, but trembling in the glass’s reflection. “That love turned me into a devil.” A breath shuddered through her. “So why can’t I stop?”
She leaned her forehead against the cold pane. The glass thrummed softly with the city’s muted electricity. “Did you do this? Or did I?” Her voice was barely audible. “I can’t tell what’s real anymore.”
“You told me to live,” she whispered. “But what kind of life is this? A world that erased everything we fought for… and still, I’m supposed to smile and pretend it’s enough. You’re alive, smiling… and somehow peace feels like it’s mocking me.”
Her next breath wavered. “Maybe I want this world to crack—just a little,” she admitted, voice raw, “just so all this pain would mean something.” The thought twisted in her stomach. “What kind of person thinks like that? Craving hurt just to feel real?”
The city glowed softly beyond the glass—flawless, indifferent.
“If you’re still watching,” she breathed, “tell me I’m not the only one left carrying this.”
She curled in on herself, fingers brushing the faint outline of that old scar beneath her shirt. “I’ll live,” she whispered. “Even if it hurts. Even if I have to pretend this perfect peace isn’t built on a grave no one remembers but me.”
Across the city, in her softly lit bedroom—walls dimmed by sheer curtains—Madoka lay awake staring at the ceiling. The stillness of the house settled around her like a held breath. Moonlight filtered through the fabric in pale, shifting ribbons, brushing over her blankets in cool, wavering patterns. It felt too quiet, too delicate, the kind of calm that made loneliness echo a little louder.
She pulled the blanket closer, chasing warmth. Her phone’s glow briefly lit the room as she scrolled without purpose, more to watch the light move than anything else. Eventually she set it aside, the screen fading back into darkness.
Her thoughts drifted—circling, persistent—back to the transfer student with the distant, haunted gaze. Homura… she looked like she’s carrying something heavy. The feeling wouldn’t leave her. There was something familiar about that expression, something she’d seen only in rare, vulnerable moments on her mother’s face when she spoke about regret… and in her own reflection on nights she cried without understanding why.
Madoka rolled onto her side and hugged her pillow, her chest tightening. I want to be her friend. But what if I say the wrong thing? What if she’s hurting and I can’t reach her? The worry stung more sharply than she expected. Why does it feel like she’s already lost something—something she can’t talk about?
Outside, the same pale moonlight brushed against both their windows. Two girls separated by silence and a truth only one remembered, each whispering into the night—neither knowing the other was awake, haunted by the same quiet pull.
As the days quietly threaded together, Homura slipped into a rhythm she didn’t trust. Mitakihara moved around her with its gentle, curated calm—soft fluorescent mornings, glass walkways glowing under pale skies, evenings washed in quiet light. The world was ordinary in a way that felt almost artificial to her, but the routine dulled her fear into a faint, constant hum—still there, buried beneath repetition.
Months passed. Gradually, she found herself settling into the group’s orbit—listening to Madoka’s gentle humor, offering dry, precise remarks to Sayaka and Kyoko, sharing warm tea with Mami while Nagisa perched on her lap or tugged at her sleeve. It all felt so natural it frightened her, as if this gentle circle had always been complete.
It reminded her, painfully, of that dreamlike labyrinth born from her own despair—the one where they had stood together against the darkness. Back then, it was an illusion built from grief. But here, in this world without magic, that impossible wish breathed again.
The trembling, withdrawn girl she’d been at the start faded into calmer composure. It was easier to hide behind that steady exterior—easier to protect the fragile parts of herself—whether anyone noticed or not.
One night, when the city lay still under its tender glow, Homura found herself unable to sleep. She stood by her window, the glass reflecting her faint outline against the pale lights outside. The world felt too quiet—too perfect.
Her thoughts spilled out in a whisper. “Sayaka doesn’t care for Kyosuke anymore… not like before. But he never broke his arm here, did he?” Her voice shook. “And Kyoko… she transferred to Mitakihara? She lived in Kazamino. Why would she uproot her whole life?” She pressed her fingertips to the cold glass, breath fogging the pane. “But I’ve seen it—Sayaka and Kyoko live together now. They’re… happy.”
Her heart twisted. “Mami should’ve died in that crash… but she’s alive. And Nagisa—she’s with her. Did Mami find her after her mother passed away? Is that why they’re together?”
Her breath trembled, fogging the glass again. “And Hitomi… she isn’t even with them anymore, is she?” The words came out small. “Not because they fought. Not because anything went wrong. She just… drifted away.”
She swallowed, the ache sharp and familiar. “Her schedule was always so rigid in the old worlds. Lessons, clubs, tutors, committees… That never changed. But this time, Madoka found a new circle first—Mami, Sayaka, Kyoko, Nagisa.” A pause. “And me.”
The quiet stretched.
“Hitomi didn’t have the time to keep up. So the world let her slip to the edges.”
Homura’s voice softened to a fragile murmur. “Even that feels intentional. Like this world rearranged itself so Madoka wouldn’t be lonely… but not so obviously that anyone would question it.”
Her voice wavered between confusion and awe, frustration and relief—tones that didn’t belong in the same breath but lived together in her chest anyway. “None of it makes sense,” she whispered. “It’s too real. Too ordinary. Not like a dream at all.”
She clasped her trembling hands together, the gesture tight, desperate. “It’s too real,” she murmured. “Too vivid. This hurt… it’s not illusion.” She stared into the shadowed city. “This world isn’t fake—it can’t be.”
Her voice softened—breathless, reverent. “Walpurgisnacht never came this April… it never appeared. Everything that used to break us just… never happened.” She swallowed, her voice steadying. “That has to mean this world is real. The pain is real.”
And for the first time, Homura allowed herself to believe that this world—and everyone in it—might finally be real enough to stay.