living skyward

Something flickers, like static.

The doors slowly swing shut, as if pushed by a wind. They close against the frame without so much as a sound. Behind them, somehow, the cell is still visible, a neon pink afterimage on Frisk's retinas.

Her thought comes to Frisk like sudden memories, like reading without words.

In the past: falling down; meaning stillness, the swift approach of death. A tower. A tower crumbling into a great depthless sea. A tower, inverted. Falling down—like a tower crumbling into a great depthless sea—horrible pain, half-remembered—the cell, the tower.

The tower, and therefore, the cell. Defend the cell. Free the cell. Destroy the cell. The cell, the cell, the cell, an urge that built and built until it burst.

Then, more clearly: Frisk. You. Frisk coming to the cell. Frisk looking at the cell. Frisk leaving the cell. Frisk returning to the cell.

I don't want to fall again.

Frisk's thought echoes back at them, with these last images, almost like a question. Desperate, fearful, a question.