Blazing flames reflect in their eyes, just like the name of this island might suggest.
A winter night stands sentinel over a great conflagration as every brick of Comala Prison crumbles and falls.
Recoleta: With Aleph's control gone, Comala is collapsing.
Recoleta: The inmates aren't even real criminals, are they? And they're still in there, with no clue that they're no longer being watched from the central tower!
Recoleta: We have to go tell them! We have to get them to safety!
Vertin: Yes, we should help them get out, at least until support arrives.
Vertin: But the Manus ritual ...
The battered boat sways within their sight.
Recoleta: Don't worry. I'll go alone.
Vertin: Huh?
Recoleta: You should hurry. When this is all over, I'll write to you, my dear friend!
Recoleta: During this journey together, our teamwork has been impeccable. So, you can trust me to do this.
Recoleta: I'm not doing it just to help you or the organization you represent. I'm doing it because the inmates are my friends.
Vertin: Okay. I trust you.
Vertin: Take care of yourself, Recoleta.
Sonetto: But if the "Storm" truly is imminent, as Dr. Merlin said, then, Ms. Recoleta, you'll ...
Sonetto, more familiar than anyone with the Foundation's exhaustive regulations, has no ready answer. She knows that, in this era, before those arcanists who remain ignorant of the truth, she must watch her words.
Recoleta: I don't quite understand what this "Storm" is all about, but don't worry. A brand-new adventure is the best thing that can happen to a writer.
Recoleta: And I doubt it'll surpass the epic adventures we've shared over the past couple of days. I'm going to write everything, including the two of you, into my new novel.
Vertin: Then I'd like to be the first to read this new novel, if that's alright?
Recoleta: Of course. Listen, I believe literature is like an endless, timeless river.
Recoleta: So we'll meet again someday, somewhere, probably in someone else's story. Who knows?
She takes one last look at her new friends, feeling a longing as if they had known each other for decades.
Then, without a backward glance, the girl sprints back to the burning ruins of the prison.
Recoleta: Farewell, my cherished friends!
I hear a sound in the distance
Guiding me on to a land of existence
So I journey on to a path that feels real
There is a voice that's calling me
To somewhere far—
Have mercy, please!
For happiness, I sing to you
And for freedom, I sing to you
Nothing can break me, nothing bring me down
Like a child I leap around
For happiness, I sing to you ...
All the visitors depart one after another.
Amid the distant echo of singing, the "creator" of this prison stares into the fire as it burns.
The moment holds for a time, until a breathless jaguar appears at the dock's edge, staring at the human before her with uncertainty.
Jailer: Dr. Merlin. You're Dr. Merlin, right? I finally found you.
Jailer: What on earth happened in the central tower? Right after I left, the whole Panopticon started collapsing. The tower's in ruin.
Jailer: I've been looking for you everywhere. Please, sir, come with me. It isn't saf—
Aleph: That won't be necessary.
Aleph: The snow is still falling, yet everything in the labyrinth has already gone up in flames.
Aleph: Fortune, fate, karma—They're nothing but a ridiculous joke.
Aleph: It's over, jaguar. You have lost your memories, your identity, your name, and now, your title. You are no longer a jailer trapped in the Panopticon.
Jailer: I don't get it, Dr. Merlin. What are you talking about?
The jailer takes a step back, her predator instincts sensing the danger in the words to come.
The damage may not be physical, but it threatens to shatter what little faith she has left to hold onto, and the life she has always known.
Jailer: I'm-I'm going back to Comala. Order must be maintained. The prisoners mustn't be allowed to escape.
Jailer: Please take care, Dr. Merlin.
Nerves torn between panic and hesitation, the jailer at last turns toward the searing flames.
Jailer: Hey, you! Don't run off like that. It's dangerous!
No one heeds her cries.
One prisoner after another flees in terror, escaping the crumbling labyrinth.
Inmate I: In deserts, in stars, in labyrinths!
Inmate II: We dream on death's straw pillow!
The jailer drifts through the raging scene, unable to steer a sensible course. At last, she pins down a frail and powerless prisoner beneath her weight.
Jailer: Stop!
???: Get off me! Let me go!
???: Are you blind? The Panopticon is falling apart!
Jailer: It's you, Roberta.
The jailer recognizes the prisoner under her grip.
Roberta, a kind and quiet prisoner, always well-behaved, now panicked and desperate to escape.
Roberta: They're all mad! I knew it. They've been insane from the start!
Roberta: The whole place is burning to the ground, and they still won't leave! They're still talking and talking about things that no one cares about.
Roberta: Ah! I can't help them. I've never understood what they were talking about—the rhythms, the factions, the ideologies ...
Roberta: Yes, the people were nice, the Idealist, too, but I've had enough of this prison. I've had enough of the Panopticon.
She collapses onto the ground, sobbing.
Roberta: I never should've joined these movements. It was all meaningless from the beginning.
Roberta: I wanna leave this place—go to Spain or France, anywhere but here. I want to go back to Magdalena.
Jailer: Huh ...
The jaguar releases her grip. Without a backward glance, Roberta leaves.
The jailer steps back into the circular structure she knows as her only home.
For happiness, I sing to you
And for freedom, I sing to you
Nothing can break me, nothing bring me down
Under the night sky, she sees Comala Prison glowing like a brilliant bonfire.
Jailer: ♫...
Three days ago
Dores: But how does literature make you feel?
Recoleta: As though I'm a kid looking through a kaleidoscope for the first time.
Recoleta: Well, maybe that's not the best way to put it. Perhaps something a little more subtle.
The young writer drowns in the vortex of words as the blind woman walks away.
She walks silently toward Comala Prison, arriving at the dock hidden between cliffs and reefs.
There, the prisoner who answers all questions awaits her arrival.
Dores: A ship sailing to an unfamiliar land.
Dores: A parable of the past and future. An era that once existed and is yet to come.
Dores: Is this the answer you've provided, Mr. Aleph?
Aleph: No, Urd. You will have to find this answer yourself.
Aleph: No one can help you with this—no one.
Dores: I see. Thank you, Mr. Aleph. I will remember what you've told me.
So the platonic year
Whirls out new right and wrong,
Whirls in the old instead;
All men are dancers and their tread
Goes to the barbarous clangour of a gong.
W.B. Yeats—Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen
