The voice echoed through the chamber like a ripple in still water.
Soft.
Familiar.
Impossible.
Poseidon turned slowly, Trident instinctively raised—though not out of fear.
Out of confusion.
There, behind him, framed in a strange doorway made of seawater suspended in air…
Stood a woman.
Her face was gentle. Tired. Kind.
Eyes like his.
Her hospital gown floated around her like silk.
"Mum?" he breathed.
She smiled—half in sorrow, half in awe.
"You've grown," she said.
"Or… changed."
Poseidon's hands trembled. The Trident dipped.
"You… you died."
"Yes. And yet, here I am. Memory has strange tides, Dominic."
His old name hit harder than any spear.
He almost flinched.
"Is this real?"
She stepped closer, feet not touching the stone, eyes soft.
"It's yours. That's what matters."
"But you're not really—"
"That doesn't matter either."
The doorway behind her widened—not through magic or pressure, but emotion.
Poseidon felt it.
