Part 6: Laberinto de Símbolos

Recoleta: I ... fell asleep?
Recoleta: Wait, what time is it? I have to go see Ms. Hunting.
In the forest, the trees sway in perfect rhythm. Their movements are so eerily human that they almost feel choreographed.
Recoleta: I know this dance. It's a tango.
She has once seen this fiery dance before.
Recoleta: Whoever's behind those trees, come out! I know you're watching me!
???: At last, you have returned, Recoleta. We've waited a century to see you once more.
Recoleta: Who are you? Why are you hiding in the shadows?
Recoleta: Step forward so I can see your face. Otherwise, don't blame me if I'm a little curt.
???: There is no face to see, child. I am but a shadow—a reflection cast from the depths of your mind.
The weary, clouded voice becomes clearer.
Recoleta: A reflection of my mind? You mean I'm dreaming?
"Numb": Yes. This is your inner world—an intricate labyrinth of symbols built by your very self.
Recoleta: Labyrinth of symbols? That's a nice name, kind of like the Templo de la Metáfora—same kind of thing!
Recoleta: Thanks, stranger. I think I just found the name for Chapter II.
Recoleta: But wait. You're saying these swaying, ghostly trees are all part of a greater symbol?
"Numb": Sharp as ever. Each tree here represents a symbol you once carefully cultivated.
Recoleta: What's wrong with them? Don't tell me they're actually dancing.
"Numb": Not long ago, this labyrinth fell into disorder. Now, every tree is caught in this restless, unsteady sway.
"Numb": This is the source of your insomnia.
Recoleta: You waited here just to tell me this?
"Numb": I am here to guard over the farthest reaches of the north. This place is so cold and indifferent that it numbs all who enter.
"Numb": And you have touched the boundary I watch over. I'm too tired. I must leave.
"Numb": Goodbye, Recoleta. And heed my final advice: Do not believe a word it says.
Recoleta: Advice? Who's "it"?
"The tortoise walks into the flame without hesitation. It is devoured, soothed and drowned. It doesn't know whether it is dead or alive, nor can it feel a thing."
Recoleta: I understand you all too well.
Recoleta: I also threw myself into the fire without a moment's hesitation.
Recoleta speaks to herself, a sadness creeping over her.
She never got the chance to say goodbye. But now, she has to move forward, or she'll be trapped in this labyrinth forever.
Recoleta: Whoever's hiding behind those rocks, come out!
Recoleta: The tortoise of the north has already told me the truth. Now tell me: What do you represent?
"Enlighten": Ah. You've finally arrived, child.
"Enlighten": For an entire century, the east has remained untouched.
"Enlighten": What is it you have faced out there?
The old voice is steady, rich with quiet power.
Recoleta: That has nothing to do with you.
"Enlighten": Oh, my dear, it has everything to do with me—with us.
"Enlighten": You write and rewrite and rewrite your rewrites, but it's never quite right, is it? You've descended into an endless cycle of revisions.
Recoleta: ...?!
"Enlighten": Remember this, child. The words you cut away never truly disappear. They become a part of you, flowing through your hand and onto the pages of your next work.
"Enlighten": Great stories are born from relentless revision. That is the fate of a writer.
Recoleta: But readers will never see the parts I erase. They only exist in my mind—torture me alone!
Recoleta: What's the point of it all?
"Enlighten": But that doesn't diminish the value of every phrase, every word, every syllable, whether or not they serve the plot.
Recoleta: Then tell me, why must they be erased?
Recoleta: Isn't it because I put too much into the individual sentences and don't consider their connection to the story?
"Enlighten": That is of no matter, child.
"Enlighten": What matters is—you are afraid you are the one who killed the cattle, are you not?
Recoleta: ...?
"Enlighten": But you simply set them free. Do you remember now?
"Enlighten": In the world you created, the cowhand has no need to herd, and the cattle have no need to graze. You provided them the freedom to chase the stars.
Recoleta: Even if my cowboy becomes a detective, even if he's doomed to walk a tragic path, is that something I have to accept?
"Enlighten": Of course. To write is to leave the traces of life in the hearts of the readers.
"Enlighten": A tale of beauty, joy, and miracles must also carry the scars of trauma and conflict,
"Enlighten": for a writer not to suffer the same scars as their readers would be unjust.
Recoleta: No, I don't believe you.
Recoleta: Do you really think that will make me feel better? I've told myself the same thing a thousand times before, and in the end, it never meant anything.
The old voice hesitates. There is a tinge of resignation behind it.
"Enlighten": Well, words have no power. Only experience can convince a person.
"Enlighten": I will leave this place, as you wish.
"It cannot be accomplished in one night. Everything that you are about to experience will give you the strength to go forth."
"Enlighten": At the very least, heed this advice.
"Enlighten": If ever you are to reach the southern forest, do not believe a single word it says.
"Enlighten": Remember that, child.
"Cheering": What's got you so worn down, Ray?
A bright, playful girl's voice flits through the dim forest light, as lighthearted as a fairy from a storybook.
Recoleta: Who ... are you?
"Cheering": Hehe! Look around you, Ray. Isn't this forest so beautiful? We spent so many dreamy summers in this little Garden of Eden.
"Cheering": But it's been so long since you've come to see me.
The girl's voice falters, tinged with unmistakable sadness.
Recoleta: We were friends?
Recoleta: Oh my! That's right! How could I have forgotten you?
A distant sense of nostalgia surges through her—a memory of a childhood companion she once knew so well.
Yes, how could she have forgotten her?
Recoleta: What ... What are you doing here?
"Cheering": Don't tell me you've forgotten, Ray. We used to sit under the trees together in summer and watch the clouds roll over the hills in the distance.
"Cheering": You wrote a poem about it, remember? "The clouds are cotton candy, and I will swallow them whole." You gave it to me.
Recoleta: I wrote something that childish? That's ... kind of cute.
"Cheering": Oh, how I've missed you, Recoleta, my best friend, my little panda cub, my green-eyed knight!
The sheer sincerity in her voice sends a tremor through Recoleta.
Recoleta: I-It's been so long! I've missed you so much!
Recoleta: Come out from behind the fireflies, my friend. Let me see you. You've grown up, haven't you? Just like I have.
"Cheering": You've been lost in your work for so long. I feel sad for you, but I can't help you.
Recoleta: ...?
"Cheering": You've forgotten so much, Ray—so many things that were pure and beautiful.
"Cheering": You had such a perceptive and sensitive soul. The poems you wrote for me were so delicate and eternal.
"Cheering": Has the world of reality weighed so heavy on you?
"Cheering": If you're tired, then let's play in the forest for a while, shall we? Just until you're ready to leave.
"Cheering": Will you stay with me, best friend?
Recoleta: Yes, I'd love to—
Recoleta: "Reality"?
The jarring sensation clears Recoleta's mind. She shakes her head, her green eyes flashing with a sudden sharpness.
She's like a child waking from a long dream, realizing their imaginary friend never truly existed.
Recoleta: Stop playing games, liar!
Recoleta: I've already met two of your companions. Tell me, what are you the symbol of?
"Cheering": Oh, no, no. I'm not a liar.
"Cheering": How could you say that, Ray?! You ... you're breaking my heart.
"Cheering": You don't even remember the first time you picked up a pen, do you?
"Cheering": All these years of waiting, only to be met by a cold-blooded executioner!!
"Cheering": If you're truly this cruel—this heartless—then I won't stay here any longer!
"Cheering": Goodbye.
"Memory wears out in the wandering life, gaining only obscure colors and shapes. What is the figure of the shadow in the shadow? The close friend of the close friend's strolls over in the delightful music."
Recoleta: Hmph. Goodbye then.
Recoleta shakes her head as she tries to block out the sorrowful girl's voice.
She clenches her teeth. It's just a symbol. She never had a friend like that.
Recoleta: I won't believe a word. I have to find a way out. I have to escape!
Through the pain and confusion, Recoleta stumbles forward, the crunch of fallen leaves and snapping of branches echoing beneath her steps.
But, under the siege of exhaustion, she collapses. As she lies on the damp earth, her head throbbing, she closes her eyes.
When she raises her head again, a pitch-black cave stands before her. From the depths of the darkness comes a voice—warped, deranged, neither male nor female.
"Slighted": At last, we meet. Our most magnificent writer, welcome to the southern forest.
"Slighted": My three dear friends, I hear, have spoken quite a bit of ill about me.
Recoleta: No, I won't listen to you. You ... All of you are liars!
"Slighted": This is a paradox—a chaotic Pandora's box.
"Slighted": If the others lied, then surely I am the one to tell the truth. Who is it who truly deceives you?
Recoleta: You ... You're the last one, aren't you? What exactly do you represent?
"Slighted": I am the black hole in your heart, that shadowy place where all your desires fester.
"Slighted": Anxiety is a poison. It seeps into your words, warping their taste.
Recoleta: Why do you have to speak like that? It's unbearable.
"Slighted": I can smell it—the stench of doubt laced in your hurried breath.
"Slighted": You are a proud, self-absorbed, grandiose writer.
"Slighted": Listen to yourself. Go back. Go back to where you belong.
Recoleta: Damn it. I don't have time for this. I have to go back!
Recoleta pushes herself up, the pain in her head gone, her body brimming with energy.
Then, she freezes in confusion.
"Slighted": For someone like you, growth may very well be a crime.
"Slighted": You should have been nothing but a beast of literature—untamed, unyielding.
Recoleta: I ... have to ... go back. But ... to where?
Recoleta: What ... am I going back for ... again?
"Slighted": You will never escape from that sorrowful, secretive, ceaselessly murmuring scene.
"Slighted": Literature is not merely a refuge of kindness and warmth. It is also a sanctuary for resentment and spite.
Recoleta: Why ... do I have to ... go back?
Recoleta: I ... belong ... to ... the ... fictional ... world.
Recoleta: I ... am ... fiction.
"Slighted": Our mission is complete.
"Slighted": This symbolic labyrinth is now entirely in your hands.
"Slighted": Farewell.
"Soft as breathing, itchy as allergy and hysteria. Rubbed, twisted, tangled, the long thread connects savage and contempt."
The labyrinth falls into an irreversible collapse.
Recoleta's eyes are vacant.
A writer must have relentless desire.
A writer must have enduring resilience.
A writer must have an innate perception.
A writer must have unshakable arrogance.