There was the woman.
There was no flood of memories, no nostalgic scenes flashing before his eyes, no moment of catharsis when he suddenly understood and saw something tangible to reach for. But there was the woman, and she had her eyes crinkled up and her lips pursed together in what could have been called regret.
She was sorry for him.
No, not that – she was sad for him.
“Am I frightening, woman?” He asked. He brought up his hand, knowing if he could touch her he could feel her, feel her hot, paper-thin skin and the blood thumping steadily beneath his fingers through those fragile blue veins, and that would be something.
“You're not,” she said, and Ulquiorra thought there was something lurking in her expression, but he couldn't understand it.
“Is that so,” he said, and she brought up her hand and they were close, so close, and he thought that if he touched her he could feel.
And then his sight dimmed and he couldn't reach any more, and there was just the woman, alone, standing there with tears forming at the corners of her eyes, and Ulquiorra still couldn't understand any of it.
And then there was nothing.