Proof requires time.
Atticus still hasn't fully gotten his own answer.
Atticus: "A voice from the above spoke to a man, 'An important thing will happen to you.'"
Outside his retreat room, people are chopping down trees from the forest, slicing the wood into planks, and then fashioning sticks and joints from the planks.
The outline of the ship has already taken shape.
Atticus: Thus, he spends his life waiting for a miracle.
Atticus: Until death arrives, and nothing has happened.
A ship signifies the start of a journey. It carries people and goods across waters ... it discovers new worlds.
People call out, communicating with one another, choosing a direction.
Atticus: "When the man lay sick in bed, he cried up to the voice from above, asking, 'When will all that you have promised finally arrive?'"
Pushing, pushing, and then more pushing. Clear grooves are left in the sand.
Atticus: ...
Atticus: Please come in.
A figure appears at the entrance of the retreat room. He walks over to the desk and places down a dinner tray, but does not sit down.
210: It's strange that you actually feel like talking.
They are not on friendly terms, with 210's attitude resembling a bristled tomcat.
Atticus lowers his head and flips through the pages, then uses his crown to hold down the book before looking up at him.
Atticus: This has nothing to do with my personal feelings. You must have something to say since you came here specifically.
Atticus: That being the case, you might as well just ask.
210: The ship has already set sail.
210: Many people are on that ship, people we know, people who watched us grow up.
210: The cook, the accountant, the errata operator ... Sophia's father, and 6 ... they're all on the ship.
For a small island that has so far managed to avoid the Emanation, exploring into the storm undoubtedly requires immense courage.
This is destined to be a great journey where people confirm and reconfirm their hypotheses, staking their lives for the opportunity to discover new horizons and search for the truth.
Atticus: Sophia already told me that the ship was completed.
The windowless and narrow-doored retreat is cut off from the outside world. And it seems this fervent exploration movement hasn't affected any of Atticus's plans.
He never stepped out to see the new beginnings, as if the island's achievements had nothing to do with him.
Piles of books have been shifted around, spreading outward, while new books are placed closer to his inner circle, like ripples from a droplet of water on the surface of a lake.
210: Aren't you going to see them off?
Atticus: I am still in retreat.
210: You never intend to fulfill your duties.
210: Perhaps it's the predetermination of fate that sets you apart, or maybe it's the brilliance of another 6 that makes you feel so inferior.
The accumulated resentment between them further sharpens his words.
The young man has followed his aspirations, which developed reverence, and then he comes into contact with envy – resignation, suspicion, and resentment.
He starts to question himself and, silently, fate itself.
210: I can't help but wonder if you are truly capable of doing the job of a 6.
Atticus: Your respect for 6 ... I mean Alma, has blinded you.
Atticus: Your questioning doesn't come from the heart. Emotions are clouding your judgment.
The pages of the book turn to a new chapter, and a familiar fable jumps out—
Atticus: 6 is only a number.
Atticus: You should listen more to what 37 says, "the number is significantly overestimated by the public."
—A fable that tells a familiar story. This is the third time Atticus has read it today.
Atticus: ... This topic should end now. You've delivered your message; now we should get back to our respective work.
Atticus: "Go back, 210. I don't want to argue with you."
That crown of his is infuriating.
210: My friend, what book are you reading? What kind of work has touched your heart, making you so obsessed with it that you neglect friends and family?
His actions contradict his modest tone. He reaches out and decisively pulls out the book that has been the subject of this undue attention.
210's breathing becomes deep and slow, his heart bubbling like a flatbread on a stove.
It's a picture book, The Voice From Above. It's so familiar, so ordinary. Every child on the island has heard this story at some point or another.
210: Is this what you've been busy with ... reading these, these children's books?
Atticus: Not only those, but indeed them as well.
Atticus speaks calmly, as if stating something that is a matter of course.
210: A ... children's fable ... ?
In anger, 210 leans forward, clenches his fist, and presses it on the table.
210: It seems the "curse" of being 6 has driven you mad. The wisdom and talent destined for you have given you the audacity to squander them.
210: Yet, no matter what, you will become a 6, and you will receive all the gifts that come with that crown!
210: You value your kin less than a children's fable. You see your friendly neighbors as vague "others" ...
210: A blessing bestowed upon the least deserving person—
210's voice chokes in his throat, then, with a snort, sizzles out like a flame in water.
210: Your head lacks wisdom, and your heart lacks compassion.
He stands straight, palms covering his eyes, hiding his expression.
210: I can see that you'll be the reason why we stagnate in seeking the truth!
Atticus: Progress is relative.
Atticus lifts his head from the book, and his blue eyes are widened.
Atticus: Is it then? Well, let me ask you, my friend. If the wisdom we seek leads us to our own destruction, what would you choose?
210: ... What do you mean?
210: Are you suggesting that our decision to explore beyond the island is wrong?!
Atticus: I didn't mean that ...
The misalignment in the conversation leads to misunderstanding, and 210's anger almost becomes tangible and touchable.
Atticus: I'm just thinking ... no, forget I said anything.
Their resentment towards one another boils past reconciliation.
210: ... Fine, stick to your perspective then.
210's departing footsteps intermingle with Atticus's calm narration, eventually merging into the sound of the wooden door slamming shut.
