Part 5: Charging the Windmill

Recoleta leans against the rusted railing of her apartment's rooftop, looking out over the blurred cityscape.
Below, sparse streetlights flicker, and a distant train whistle echoes from afar.
Recoleta: I keep revising and revising it, but I still can't find the right way to write the final sentence.
Recoleta: It's been a whole week. Will I ever be able to write a proper ending?
Recoleta: No, Recoleta. You can't just falter at the first obstacle. This is part of the process. If you want to be a published writer, you have to push through.
Recoleta: Alright. Focus on the revisions. No more overthinking. Let's start with Hunting's suggestion and see where it leads.
Recoleta: "The characters need to continue their journey." But I don't understand. The cowboy went home just to search for a place to belong.
Recoleta: I want them to get lost—to stumble forward blindly, just like we do in real life, to find meaning not in reaching their destination, but in the search itself, because that is our reality.
Recoleta: How could this happen? I was haunted by the ending of The Rise and Fall of Sanity for years. And now, here I am, haunted by an ending all over again.
Recoleta: Have I not grown at all since then? Have I tried so hard all this time only to get stuck in silent stagnation all over again? Can't I grow like so many protagonists with a character arc?
Her shadow stretches long across the rooftop tiles. Then, a cool breeze brushes from behind.
Recoleta: You mean ... the protagonists are ghosts, trapped in an endless cycle of death and rebirth?
Editor Hunting: Push it further. Make it something more concrete, easier to grasp.
Recoleta: They've suffered through countless loops, died over and over again, and, only now, in this cycle, have they finally uncovered the truth?
Editor Hunting: Good. But that's just the foundation. We should layer in some literary elements.
Recoleta blinks as she attempts to keep up with Hunting's train of thought.
Recoleta: The two crows have stood watch for a century. They have their own purpose. They shouldn't just be a plot device.
Editor Hunting: They can be symbolic. What if they represent the enslaved souls of the protagonists from the previous cycle?
Editor Hunting: Wait, no, that idea needs refining. "Souls" are overused in fiction. We need something fresher. Recoleta, any thoughts?
She thinks hard, but nothing comes to her.
Recoleta feels her words get stuck in her throat.
Recoleta: If it's your suggestion, then I ... uh ... do I have to change it this way?
Editor Hunting: ...?
Editor Hunting: It's getting late. Let's leave it at that for today.
Hunting notices something is off. She walks Recoleta to the door, her breath fogging in the cold air.
Editor Hunting: Don't push yourself too hard, Recoleta.
Editor Hunting: Remember: first, we're writing a novel, not a screenplay. Second, there's a lot we can learn from cinema's visual storytelling. Third, we need to make sure every reader can follow the story.
Editor Hunting: Always keep those three points in mind.
Recoleta: I'll finish it, Ms. Hunting. I'll figure out the ending.
Editor Hunting: Be careful on your way back home. Stay on the well-lit streets.
Recoleta: Got it. See you next week!
A pen scratches against paper, leaving behind hurried strokes of ink.
Recoleta: So the cowboy and the coachman see their remains—evidence of the endless cycle and their endless deaths—and sink into despair. That's it, right?
Recoleta: If that's the case, what does it all mean? Shadows, home, distant echoes—none of them seems to connect.
Recoleta: Letting go of past burdens and making peace with oneself—sure, that works. But what about the old man and the cowhand?
Recoleta: "The struggles of old age and the origins of childhood." If reconciliation were that simple, why go all the way back home in the first place? It doesn't add up.
Recoleta paces back and forth on the rooftop.
Recoleta: No, no, Recoleta, you can't think like that. You've already wasted too much time talking to the moon.
Recoleta: Don't just think about it. Pick up the damn pen.
Her restless hands grip the rusted railing, making it groan under the pressure.
Recoleta: Take up your pen, Recoleta.
Recoleta: Remember that fire, that hunger to write. You have to prove you're not weak.
Recoleta: Get back to your room, sit at that cursed desk, and write that ending.
Hurried footsteps echo down the stairwell.
Another long night has begun.
As dawn rises, the sky turns pale as the café welcomes its first customer.
Barista: I'm sorry. We're not open yet. Oh? Recoleta? Haven't seen you in a while! Did you quit?
Recoleta: Hey, Gonzalo! As you can see, I'm working on a novel.
Recoleta lifts the notebook and thick stack of papers that are tucked beneath her arm.
Recoleta: Can I have a black coffee? Two sugars, no milk. Thanks.
Barista: Of course. I'll sneak you a doughnut, too. Just don't tell the boss.
Recoleta: Thanks, Gonzalo! By the way, since the place is empty, would you like to take a look at my novel?
Barista: Oh, dear! You're gonna hit me with another one of your incomprehensible metaphors, aren't you?
Recoleta: No, no, trust me, this time it's different. I've got an editor now. She's given me some excellent advice.
Recoleta: I'm writing a trilogy, actually, and I've just finished the first novel.
Barista: Sounds great. Alright, future bestseller.
Gonzalo places the coffee and doughnut on the counter before leaning against the register and opening up the notebook.
By the time the sky has fully brightened, his fingers linger on the last page for a long while before he finally closes the manuscript.
Barista: That's awesome! So this time, it's an adventure about escaping a temple? This isn't like anything you've written before. Why the shift in style?
Recoleta: That's not important. Tell me, is it good?
Barista: That's surprising. I've never read anything like it. It's exciting and eerie, that's for sure. It's like watching a psychedelic movie or something.
Barista: Great! Finding a pile of your own corpses, realizing the core is a secret, then becoming a detective wandering the wilderness—It's really great!
Recoleta: But don't you think the cowboy and the coachman never truly get the ending they deserve?
Barista: Why?
Recoleta: They set out once more to uncover the secret of the "Ageless."
Barista: Here's the case: Nothing is wrong with a journey of discovery. I mean, Don Quixote is a knight's adventure too, isn't it? And everyone says that's a classic.
Recoleta: Don Quixote isn't just a silly man on a bony horse fighting windmills. That story really makes people stop and think. It's something they keep coming back to.
Barista: My friend, you've got your characters staring at a mountain of their own corpses! I'm pretty sure that's enough to get people thinking for a while.
Recoleta: Haha, you've got a point.
Recoleta: Thanks for humoring me and for the doughnut. Maybe I'm not as unsure as I thought.
Barista: Hmm? Unsure? The book's already finished, isn't it?
Recoleta: Yes, but I've been stuck on where to take the second novel for weeks now. My mind's so empty it's like a barren desert in there.
Barista: Haha. No way! You're Recoleta! Your ideas usually come faster than you can write them down! Ah, wait, I get it. I guess you put it all into this novel, right?
Barista: But I'm not gonna pretend I understand all that fancy "literature" talk you're always on about. But if all you worry about is whether something is "literature" or not, you might forget why you started writing in the first place.
Recoleta: Why I started writing?
Recoleta: Why did I start this story in the first place?
Gonzalo's voice fades, blending into the clinking cups and hushed conversations of the café.
Recoleta stares at the manuscript. Is the answer buried somewhere between the lines?
Recoleta: Since my last visit, how many Saturdays have I missed?
Recoleta: It's Saturday again. What time is it?
Recoleta: Forget it. It doesn't matter as long as I write something good.
She turns over, burying her face in the couch cushion.
Recoleta: Something good ...
Recoleta: What have I even written these past few weeks?
Recoleta: Look at this mess—endless, meandering descriptions, broken dialogues, characters wandering around without purpose.
Recoleta: It's a complete joke.
Recoleta: Just go ask Ms. Hunting, Recoleta. Didn't you say she was your Maxwell Perkins? She'll have some nuggets of wisdom for you.
Recoleta: Maybe tonight I can finally pin down the outline for Chapter II. I wonder if Ms. Hunting has any more concrete suggestions. Yes, maybe—just maybe—we can solve everything tonight.
Recoleta: But first, let me calm my mind before heading out.
Recoleta: Maybe I just need a little siesta.
Recoleta: sigh
As she drifts off, fragments of chaotic dreams claw at her mind.
By the time everything settles into silence, the room has been nearly entirely swallowed by darkness.