Six months after they had arrived in the village.

"COUGH. COUGH."

The room echoed with the harsh notes of a relentless cough, a dissonant chord in the symphony of life. Meteria's once-melodic laughter now transformed into a harsh refrain, each gasp for breath carrying the weight of her struggle. A handkerchief, once pristine, bore the cruel stains of her ailment—splinters of crimson against the canvas of vulnerability.

"Momma, are you okay?" Bell's voice, tinged with genuine concern, cut through the room. His wide eyes met his mother's gaze, holding the weight of a secret too heavy to bear.

"Momma, do you want tea? Gramma said that would help your throat," Alice pleaded with her eyes, searching for something, anything, to ease her mom's suffering.

"I'm fine, my dear. But tea would be wonderful." The words, a gentle murmur, painted a melody of reassurance over a canvas of struggle. Meteria's lips curved into a faint smile—a mask woven with care to shield her children from the harsh truth lurking in the shadows. Her voice, once unwavering, now trembled with vulnerability.

"Okay. I'll go make it right away, mommy. Just hold on. It will make you feel better soon." Alice darted to the kitchen, determined to do something, anything, to bring relief.

"I am just a little tired. A little rest and some tea will surely help." The words were a thread of fiction, woven to shield Bell and Alice from the harsh reality that threatened to unravel. Bell's gaze held skepticism and worry—a reflection of his love for his mother and his desire to protect her.

1 Year after they had arrived in the village

As Meteria's health declined, and Hera became her constant companion and caretaker. Every act of tending to Meteria's needs was an act of love, a heartbreaking testament to Hera's devotion.

Hera's days became an unbroken vigil by Meteria's side. She fed her, bathed her, and helped with every essential task, even as Meteria's ability to manage on her own dwindled. Seeing her daughter succumb to illness weighed on Hera's heart, chipping away at it each day.

Bell and Alice, keenly observant, couldn't ignore the painful truth the adults tried to shield them from. Meteria's deteriorating health became increasingly evident, and the once vibrant world outside their home faded into a mere whisper of memory.

Meteria's fits intensified, convulsions more violent, leaving her gasping for air in a battle against an invisible foe. Her breathing became a rasping struggle, and the relentless coughing brought forth a horrifying sight—blood staining once-pristine sheets.

The walls of their home enclosed Meteria like a cocoon, a sanctuary of fragility. Outside, the world moved on, oblivious to their suffering. Bell and Alice shouldered the weight of their family's well-being, managing household chores while Zeus toiled outdoors, seeking anything to ease Meteria's suffering.

"Today, Bell, we have to tackle the laundry," Alice said, her voice soft but tinged with worry. Fear etched lines on her face that she struggled to hide.

Bell nodded, determination in his eyes. "Alright, let's get started."

As they worked, Bell stole glances at his fading mother, yearning to be a source of strength in the face of her suffering. Emotions warred within him, the desire to help conflicting with the helplessness gripping his young heart.

"I hope mama gets better," Alice whispered, her voice trembling with sadness and fear.

Bell hugged his sister close, unable to offer reassuring words but conveying their shared love and concern through their embrace.

18 Months After moving to the village

As the days passed, Bell and Alice noticed that their mother was spending less and less time outside of her bedroom. She had grown weak and could barely get out of bed. When asked why, she'd only say something along those lines: 'I'm just tired. Don't worry sweetie. I will get better soon. Momma loves you and is going to stay with you as long as she can."

One day, Alice heard voices coming from their mother's room. She crept closer and listened.

"It's time to let her go," Zeus said.

"We can't just give up on her! Hermes Said that he had a branch of the Holy Tree. I am sure that will help." Hera spoke with a sense of urgency. "Damn that wretched high elf. I can't believe she would send a letter like that. If only…."

Alice's heart sank and she ran away before she could hear more. Her mother was going to die. She ran back to her room and cried. She didn't want to face reality. She wanted to stay in denial. But she couldn't hide from the truth forever.

As the days passed, Alice grew more and more withdrawn. She barely spoke to anyone, even her brother. She blamed herself for her mother's illness. She wished she could have done more to help. She wished she could have saved her. Even if her mind told her there was nothing she could do, her heart was begging her to do something anything to help her mom.

Several Days later:

Hermes entered the dwelling, his usual cheer dimmed by the weight of the situation. Delayed by the turmoil outside Orario, he carried a burden of utmost importance.

"I am sorry. I am so late," he confessed, regret lacing his words. "Public order outside Orario has declined more than I thought it would. But I managed to get it."

Hera's face, etched with worry, brightened at Hermes' arrival. She wasted no time, practically seizing him by the arm. "Thank goodness you're here, Hermes. Come with me immediately."

Without ado, Hera led Hermes to Meteria's room, a place now saturated with shared concern. Inside, Meteria lay, her pallor stark against the white sheets. The room held a heavy hush, the gravity of the situation pressing on them all.

Hermes extended the branch towards Meteria. "Here you go, Meteria," he said, a hint of relief in his voice. "I am glad that I made it."

Meteria's weak smile held both gratitude and sorrow as she accepted the branch. "Thank you, Lord Hermes. I appreciate your generosity. I know how difficult it is to get one of these in the best of times. But I can't take it."

Hera's heart sank, her voice trembling with emotion. "What do you mean? This could save you!" The thought of losing one of her last remaining children devastated her.

The room felt heavy with the weight of the conversation, the air itself thickening in response to Meteria's words.

"My illness has progressed too much," Meteria confessed, her voice frail and filled with resigned sorrow. "The branch will only buy me a few weeks or a month or two at most."

Tears welled up in Hera's eyes as she grasped the severity of the situation. "But...but...still... I know your illness has progressed, but this has always helped you recover."

A faint, wistful smile crossed Meteria's lips. "I know," she whispered. "But I have already made my decision. I need to focus on my family. Even if it does push it off, it will only be a few weeks or months at most. I need to think about Alice and Bell."

The sense of love and selflessness in Meteria's voice was palpable as she continued, her gaze locked onto Hera. "Lady Hera, I have a request of you. Please use this for Alice. She has the same sickness. I failed as a mother once; I couldn't give my child a healthy body... I don't want to fail again by taking away something that could save her life. I am choosing my daughter over myself."

Tears streamed down Hera's cheeks, mingling with her heartache as she struggled to find words. "You are not a failure of a mother, Meteria," she said, her voice quivering with emotion. "You have showered those children with every ounce of affection possible. Never think of yourself as a failure again. They are both wonderful children."

Hera took a breath, steadying herself before nodding, her resolve clear. "I understand. I'll make sure Alice gets this. Don't worry about her, Meteria. We will take care of her and Bell."

In the quiet room, a sense of finality hung heavy in the air, bittersweet like the fading notes of a melancholic melody. Meteria's fragile smile held a warmth that lit up the dim space. "Thank you, Lady Hera," she whispered, her voice filled with gratitude and acceptance. "I will assume that this is goodbye, Lord Hermes. I doubt I will live long enough to see you again. Thank you for everything."

Hermes, his godly countenance tinged with sorrow, bowed his head slightly. "I am sorry that I could not do more for Meteria," he admitted, his voice touched with genuine regret. "It was a pleasure meeting you. You truly are too kind of a soul for this world. I will pray that Hades gives you peaceful rest. If Bell or Alice ever need anything, send them to me, and I will do what I can to help."

Tears glistened in Hermes' eyes as he embraced Meteria gently, a god's farewell to a humble soul. He held her for a moment, cherishing this final connection, this fleeting moment of humanity. Meteria chuckled weakly, a trace of her former spirit shining through even in this solemn moment.

"Oh, my, to have a God pray for me. I am lucky," she whispered. "Thank you for your offer. Just don't teach Bell to be a peeper," she added, her tone playful despite the circumstances, as she returned Hermes' embrace, their frail forms a testament to enduring strength.

"Haha, I can't promise that, as it is a man's rrrrrrrromance after all," Hermes chuckled, his words light and playful.

But Hera's response was swift and rage-filled. Her voice rumbled like distant thunder, and her gaze turned fierce and cold as she locked onto Hermes. "Fool, if you try to corrupt my precious grandson, I will smite you myself. The depths of Tartarus will be a vacation in comparison to what I will do to you."

Hermes, feeling the weight of Hera's anger, laughed nervously, his brow damp with sweat. He quickly patted Meteria on the back and made a hasty exit. "Hahaha, it was a joke, Hera, I promise. Well, I don't want that, so I had best leave."

As the door closed behind Hermes and Hera, Meteria was left with her thoughts, a somber blanket enveloping her heart. She knew she had made the right decision, but it still hurt. Her children, her beloved sister - they would all be left behind, and she couldn't bear the thought of not being there for them.

Unfortunately for them, unbeknownst to anyone, a set of little ears, just behind the door, overheard the conversation.

Flashback to before Hermes left.

Alice, concealed from view, had witnessed the arrival of Hermes, or as he insisted, Uncle Hermes. Sprinting towards the house, she couldn't quite make it before Hera pulled him inside. Quivering with curiosity and anxiety, she stood there, a small form hidden from sight. Reaching the house, she discerned voices emanating from her mother's room. Instead of barging in, Alice opted to wait, allowing her to eavesdrop on the discussions inside.

As the words drifted through the air and into her ears, Alice's eyes widened, her petite body frozen as she listened with rapt attention. The gravity of their conversation weighed on her like an immovable boulder, and immediately, she began to blame herself. Guilt coursed through her veins, a toxic poison consuming her from the inside out.

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she remained hidden, unable to budge. She felt like a helpless spectator in her own life, watching as the world she knew crumbled around her. Her young mind grappled with the situation, unable to shake the belief that somehow, her presence had caused her mother's suffering.

Alice's thoughts spiraled into an ever-darkening abyss. She clutched her chest, her heart pounding as she wrestled with guilt and fear. The room around her seemed to close in, shadows growing longer and more menacing, mirroring the turmoil in her young mind.

Her breaths grew shallow, her wide eyes filled with unshed tears. She pressed her ear closer to the door, straining to catch a glimmer of hope or reassurance in her mother's voice.

Within her young heart, a maelstrom of emotions raged. She felt the crushing weight of responsibility, a burden she couldn't possibly understand but was determined to bear. Her thoughts circled back to the times when she had inadvertently hindered her mother's treatment. She believed she had somehow contributed to her mother's worsening condition, and a sense of guilt weighed heavily on her fragile shoulders.

As the conversation persisted, Alice's inner world grew increasingly turbulent. Her small fingers clenched into fists, nails biting into her palms. She yearned to burst into the room, to express her remorse and explain that she hadn't intended to exacerbate matters. But the fear of disappointing her family further kept her rooted in place, hidden behind the door, ensnared in her self-imposed isolation.

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Each word spoken by her mother fueled her inner torment. She wished she could turn back time, undo any perceived mistakes, and make her mother better. In her young mind, she had a child's understanding of cause and effect, believing her presence had somehow triggered her mother's decline. She felt responsible for her mother's suffering.

As the weight of guilt and sadness bore down on her, Alice's thoughts spiraled into darker territory. She envisioned a future where her mother's illness continued to worsen because of her, a future where her brother had to care for her, and where the entire family's happiness crumbled.

Tears welled up in Alice's eyes, blurring her view of the door. She bit down on her lower lip, fighting to keep her sobs silent. She didn't want her family to hear her crying. She didn't want to be a burden.

In her young heart, she had already determined that she needed to make amends, to somehow find a way to heal her mother, even if it meant taking matters into her own hands. The guilt that had taken root in her mind now twisted and grew like a gnarled vine, threatening to strangle her with sorrow and self-blame.

In her young mind, she began to construct a narrative where her existence was a burden, a hindrance to her family's happiness. She felt like an intruder in her own life, a source of pain for the people she loved most. She believed that if she hadn't been born, her mother wouldn't have needed to make this heartbreaking choice.

Alice's thoughts spiraled into an ever-darker abyss. She contemplated ways to rectify her supposed mistake, even if it meant leaving her family to spare them further pain. The weight of her perceived responsibility bore down on her, threatening to extinguish the innocence of her childhood.

Upon hearing Hermes announce his departure, Alice's world crumbled into a myriad of shattered pieces. With eyes brimming with unshed tears, she bolted from the scene, her tiny feet propelling her swiftly through the familiar corridors of her home. Her heart pounded in her chest like a terrified bird seeking escape from its cage.

She didn't want anyone, especially her family, to witness her in this state. She needed to hide, to bury herself in the confines of her room where the walls would shield her from the pain that had just been thrust upon her.

As she reached her room, she slammed the door shut behind her with a resonating thud. The sound reverberated in the ensuing silence. Her room, once a sanctuary of comfort and solace, now felt like a prison, confining her with the tormenting thoughts that swirled within her mind.

Alice threw herself onto her bed, her petite frame shaking with sobs. Tears soaked her pillow as she buried her face in it, muffling her cries. She felt lost, adrift in a sea of emotions too vast for her young heart to comprehend.

Guilt's insidious voice gnawed at her, an unrelenting beast that whispered in her ear, telling her that she was to blame for her mother's suffering. She didn't want to be the reason her family was in pain. She didn't want to be a burden. If she wasn't here, then her mama would have taken the branch and been able to live a little longer. If she wasn't here, then her brother would have a mother for longer. If she wasn't here Grandma Hera would still have her beloved daughter.

In the isolation of her room, Alice's inner turmoil raged on, a tempest of conflicting emotions threatening to consume her. She silently cried herself to sleep. She didn't even notice when Bell came to check on her or that he noticed that she had been crying. Bell gently took one of the blankets from his bed and placed it over Alice. Being careful not to wake her from her, Bell pulled the blanket to cover her, so that she wouldn't catch a cold. Alice stirs slightly: "Bro..."

"You are welcome, Sis. I am always gonna be there for you. We are family." Bell whispered tenderly, his voice carrying the weight of his devotion. He carefully tucked the blanket around Alice, making sure she felt safe and warm before turning towards his own bed. The dim room seemed to echo his unspoken thoughts, a cocoon of shared love and unwavering support.

The next morning

Bell's eyes flickered open abruptly, his heart still gripped by the remnants of a haunting dream. In that nightmarish vision, he had awakened to a world where his mother had slipped away, leaving an aching void, and Alice had vanished into the shadows of uncertainty. He couldn't discern whether it was merely a dream or an ominous premonition.

Bolting upright, Bell rushed to his sister's bedside. Alice lay there, awake but lost in contemplation, her gaze unfocused.

"Hey, Bell. Did you sleep okay?" Alice inquired, her eyes not quite meeting his.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Bell replied with a heavy sigh, his unease lingering like a shroud.

Alice nodded, a silent understanding passing between them. She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of her bed, patting the space next to her. Bell settled beside her, and Alice enveloped him in a comforting embrace.

"It's going to be okay, Bell. We're going to get through this together," she whispered softly, her words infused with sincerity.

Bell leaned into her warmth, closing his eyes as if shutting out the harsh reality that loomed ahead. Fear clawed at his heart, the uncertainty of their future a heavy burden. But he knew he had to be strong, not just for himself but for Alice.

"I'm scared," he admitted, tears trickling down his cheeks. "I don't know if I can do this without her."

Alice's hold tightened around him, her silent support offering more solace than words ever could. There were no easy answers, no magical solutions. They simply clung to each other, two siblings facing an uncertain tomorrow. The world around them seemed to have lost its luster, a precious something slipping through their fingers, though they couldn't quite grasp what it was.

Several weeks later

Materia's fragile form convulsed in the throes of a violent coughing fit, each spasm wracking her frail body. She lay in bed, one trembling hand clutching her chest, the other splayed out beside her. Gasping for air between each bout of hacking, her eyes had taken on a bloodshot hue, and her pallid face glistened with a thin sheen of sweat.

A chorus of concerned voices pierced the air, the urgent cries of her beloved children drawing them to her side. They rushed to her bedside, their young faces etched with worry, their voices a symphony of care and concern.

"Mama," they chimed in unison, their expressions a mixture of fear and love. "What do you need, Mama?" Alice's voice trembled with anxiety. "Can I get you some water?" Bell's concern mirrored his sister's.

Meteria mustered a weak smile as she struggled to catch her breath. "No, my darlings," she managed between raspy breaths. "I'm fine, truly. Just a little cough."

"But Mama, you don't look fine!" Bell protested, his brow furrowed with worry, his eyes pleading for reassurance.

Meteria met their gazes with a soft, tender expression. "I know, but appearances can be deceiving. Sometimes, a cough is just a cough."

Alice's voice quivered with doubt. "But, Mama—"

"Please, my loves," Meteria interrupted gently, her eyes filled with love for her children. "Go play with your each other outside."

The twins exchanged glances; their concern still etched on their young faces. Reluctantly, they began to step away from the bedside, casting lingering, worried glances back at their mother until they reached the door.

Once outside, away from Meteria's weakening form, Bell and Alice couldn't hold back their tears any longer. They stood there, little shoulders heaving, their arms wrapped tightly around each other. The weight of their worry bore heavily on their young hearts as they walked away, their tears flowing like a silent river of anguish.

That Same Evening

The night draped itself over Bell and Alice as they sat side by side on the porch of their home, gazing up at the vast expanse of stars that adorned the dark canvas of the sky. A soft breeze rustled through the trees, and the distant chirping of crickets created a symphony of nature around them. In the quietude of the evening, their mother's bedroom window emitted a warm, reassuring glow.

Alice reached out, her small fingers intertwining with Bell's, seeking comfort in their shared bond. She turned her gaze toward him, her eyes filled with uncertainty and worry.

"What do you think it means that our mama is sick?" she asked, her voice laced with concern. "Do you think she's going to be okay?"

Bell's response was a gentle, soothing whisper against the backdrop of the night. "I don't know," he admitted, his grip on Alice's hand offering silent reassurance. He lifted his eyes to the heavens, contemplating the stars as if they held the answers. "But I know that we have to keep praying for her and being there for her."

Alice nodded, her voice trembling as she voiced her deepest fears. "And I'm scared that she might leave us like Papa did."

Bell met his sister's gaze, the weight of shared apprehension passing between them. He nodded in understanding, his voice carrying a note of resolve. "Me too. But we can't lose hope, Alice. Mama wouldn't want us to give up."

With a heavy sigh, Alice leaned against Bell's shoulder, finding solace in his presence. Together, they continued to watch the stars twinkle overhead, their flickering lights a source of both comfort and uncertainty, their hearts heavy with the weight of powerlessness in the face of their mother's illness.

Two Years After moving to the Village (Bell and Alice are Age 5)

The early morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft, gentle glow across Bell and Alice as they stood in front of their mother's bedroom door. The air was cool and hushed, as if the world outside held its breath in anticipation. With tentative, worried expressions, the siblings exchanged glances before Bell raised his small fist and knocked.

No response came from within, only the silence that hung heavily in the air. Swallowing their trepidation, they shared another glance and then, without a word, turned the doorknob and let themselves into the room. What they found was a sight that had sadly become all too familiar in recent months.

Their mother, Meteria, lay in bed, the lines of pain etched across her face as she was gripped by another bout of harsh, wracking coughs. Gasping for breath, she clutched her chest with one frail hand, her body trembling with the effort to expel the relentless torment. It was a heart-wrenching sight, one that Bell and Alice had witnessed far too often. Each time they hoped it would be the last, but it never was.

Alice couldn't hold back her tears as she rushed to her mother's side. Her voice cracked with anguish as she spoke. "Mama..."

Bell walked over to the bed and knelt beside it. His voice trembled with the weight of his concern. "Mama, can we get you anything?" he asked, his eyes filled with a mixture of love and helplessness.

As they sat by their mother's bedside, their young minds grappled with the enormity of the situation. They had encountered death before, but it had never been so intimate, so cruelly present in their lives. Witnessing Meteria's decline left them bewildered, as if life itself were playing a cruel trick on their innocence. The woman who had always been their steadfast anchor, their source of love and comfort, was now fading away before their eyes, and with each passing day, they were drawn closer to the inevitable end of her light.

"No, just go back to what you were doing," Meteria whispered, her voice fragile as spun glass.

"But Mama, you don't look fine!" Bell's words quivered with fear, his cheeks stained by the tracks of tears.

"I know that doesn't mean I'm not okay," she replied, summoning a faint, reassuring smile that barely concealed the pain etched across her face. Her gaze shifted between her children, filled with a deep, unfaltering love.

"MAMA, what is wrong? Please tell us what we can do to help," Alice pleaded, her voice tinged with desperation as she reached out for her mother.

Meteria's frail form was wracked by another fierce bout of coughing, her body curled in on itself as she gasped for precious breath. Her handkerchief, once pristine white, now bore the cruel stains of her battle. Each hacking cough felt like a relentless assault on her weakened frame, and yet, she refused to yield.

The room bore witness to her valiant struggle. The pale, morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a feeble glow on Meteria's withered form. The air seemed to hold its breath, as if the world itself paused to acknowledge her fight.

Bell and Alice watched, their hearts heavy, as their mother clung to life with every fiber of her being. Her spirit remained unbroken, but with each passing day, they saw the cruel truth unfurl before them. The strength that had once defined her, the pillar of their family, was gradually waning. It was not Meteria's will but her body that now betrayed her. She was ensnared in the relentless grip of her illness, trapped in a web of pain and despair.

"Please. Please don't go. Don't leave us, momma," Bell pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. Alice nodded in agreement, tears streaming down her face. She knew that she had to be strong for her brother, but the thought of losing their mother was too much to bear.

"Is there anything we can get you? We have water, medicine, and food. Whatever you need, we will get it for you. Tell us what we can do to make you feel better," Alice pleads.

"Yeah. What can we do, mamma? We would do anything for you, mama," Bell.

"Thank you both. If you want to go, bring Grampa and Gramma here. Maybe they can help me." Meteria smiles weakly at her children.

"Okay, we will go get them. Please stay here and rest. Don't go anywhere, ok?" Bell says his voice trembling.

Bell takes off running to get his Grampa Zeus and Gramma Hera who are outside in the yard. Alice stays with her mama, holding her hand and praying for her to get better.

Outside

Zeus and Hera strolled around the family garden, the warm sun casting dappled shadows through the leaves of the trees. The air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the distant hum of bees. It was a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere inside the house.

Suddenly, Bell came sprinting towards them, his eyes wide with urgency and tears streaming down his cheeks. "GRAMMA. GRAMPA! Come quickly," he cried out, his voice quivering with emotion.

Both Zeus and Hera rushed over, concern etched on their faces. Zeus knelt down to Bell's level, his voice filled with a mix of worry and anticipation. "Bell, what's wrong?"

"It's... mamma," Bell choked on his words, his shoulders trembling with sobs. "She... isn't getting better. She asked to see both of you."

Hera's hand went to her mouth in shock, and Zeus's gaze hardened as he absorbed the gravity of the situation. They had known this moment was inevitable, but the reality of it was still a heavy blow.

"Come on, Bell," Zeus said, his voice steady and resolute despite the turmoil in his heart. "Let's go see your mother."

Back inside the house:

Zeus and Hera rushed to Meteria's room, urgency echoing in their footsteps. The air felt heavy, weighed by impending farewell. Hera, voice quivering, approached Meteria's bedside. "How are you feeling, Meteria?" Tears welled in her eyes.

Meteria, frail amidst sheets, met Hera's gaze. "I'm sorry, Lady Hera," she whispered, voice a fragile breath. "I can't last anymore."

Beside her, Zeus fought to keep his voice steady. "It's okay, child. We're here for you."

Alice, tears streaming, sobbed, "Mama, you can't leave us."

Meteria's trembling hand stroked Alice's hair. "I'm sorry, Alice," she whispered, tears flowing freely. "I'm dying. I won't survive the night."

Bell cried out, "NO! Mama, you have to fight!" His voice quivered with fear and denial.

Materia's apology hung heavy, a collective display of love and anguish. "I'm sorry, my children. I'll never hold you again. I'm a failure as a mother. Forgive me!"

A transformation occurred, a shift to peace. "Mama, it's not your fault," Alice choked. "You gave us everything. You're our hero. We'll always love and remember you. But please don't go."

Zeus and Hera, faces etched with grief, stood nearby. Materia smiled at her children, a final touch of a mother's love. "I'm sorry, my adorable children," she whispered. "I wish I could stay longer, but my time has come. Promise to look out for each other and keep your hearts open to love."

Her raspy words filled with tenderness, "The world can be cruel, but it holds great beauty. Goodbye, my sweet children. I love you. Never forget how loved you are, even after I'm gone. I don't know how your life will be without me, but you are strong. Remember me always, and I'll watch over you. I pray you'll live a happy life, see your auntie before she passes. I'll always watch over you from above."

Bringing Bell and Alice close, she pressed a loving kiss to each forehead. Her eyelids closed, breathing faint. Materia clung to life with unwavering tenacity, her spirit refusing to yield. As the sun dipped, she surrendered. Silence filled the room.

"MAMMMAAAAAAA!" Bell and Alice's wails pierced the silence. Hera leaned on Zeus for support.

Bell and Alice's hearts shattered. They had lost the one who loved them. Their lives would never be the same. In their grief, they made a solemn vow to carry forward her legacy.

With that unspoken promise, Meteria passed away. Her plot, adorned with a stone slab, stood as a beacon. Each day, Bell and Alice made a pilgrimage, believing her spirit lingered, guiding them.

Days of grief followed. Bell and Alice rarely ventured out, seeking solace in familiar walls. Zeus and Hera offered comfort, yet the pain of their mother's absence remained as an unrelenting ache in their hearts.