Judgement is quiet for a while, swimming through and through the groaning stonework of the old stairway.

nobody can get away nobody can die? She speaks slowly, ponderously, indefinitely. living is the prison; the prison is living; i am to all prisons the lock, and the key is death.

A gust stirs the fog outside the window as she repeats: nobody can die.

And the fragment in Frisk's chest warms suddenly, like a fire flaring up as wood crumbles within it, like determination in the face of the unsolvable, like fear set loose from its bonds.

i would like to see the gardens, comes Judgement's voice, subdued and fractured.