Memories are like a tidal surge, truly suffocating.
Miyamoto Noyuki slumped back against the seat, staring at the blinding lights on the carriage ceiling, drawing the air deep into her lungs.
The pale white light beat down from above, casting her face in a clear, almost transparent pallor. She reached out a porcelain-white hand, striving toward the source of the light as if trying to grasp something... Light? Memories? Or perhaps freedom?
Chapter 177