Sculpted Like a Song

Dear Mr. Claudel, I have arrived in Cité. Unlike the quiet of Besançon, this place is never free of noise. Bells, carriage wheels, the clamor of the crowds... The thought that Miss Sanga has been living in such a place fills me with unease.

The rumors have already spread. They say Miss Sanga spends her every waking hour with a man more than twenty years her senior, "for the sake of art." It is absurd. Tomorrow I shall go to the studio and see for myself. This time I will carry out your wishes... I will bring your sister, our dear Miss Sanga, home to Besançon. Camille@1 August, A.F.2@1

A cluttered room.

Sculptures of clay, marble, and granite stand scattered wherever there was space, turning the place into a makeshift sculpting studio.

Your temples throb. You try to move, but...

Excitement lights up the young apprentice sculptor's eyes, and she leans in close to you.

You hold fast to who you are supposed to be.

This time, you are the maid who grew up at Sanga's side, sent by Young Master Paul to bring her home.

"You must save her soul from that devil, who does nothing but exploit others and steal their work."

You hold fast to who you are supposed to be.

This time, you are a maid who grew up with Sanga and have been sent by Young Master @1: Claudel to bring her home.

"You must save her soul from that devil, who does nothing but exploit his subordinates and steal their work."

Sanga takes your hand gently. Worry flickers through her calm eyes.

SPLASH!!

The studio door flies open.

A tall, grim-faced man walks in, several strangers trailing behind him.

You don't need to reach for Camille's memories, that unmistakable mustache is enough to place him.

The celebrated sculptor, August.

Even now his work is called masterful, and it still draws fierce bidding at the Londinium auctions.

August frowns at your hand clasped in Sanga's. Then the sculpture catches his eye, and nothing else exists.

The others crowd in as well, studying the newly finished piece, and the praise comes in waves.

August's laughter rings through the empty studio. He shoves you aside and seizes Sanga's hands in his own.

Sanga eases her hand free and walks over to the sculpture.

You study the sculpture in front of you, a near-perfect likeness of "you", and fall into thought...

You deliver your verdict as if you know exactly what you're talking about. In truth, art has always been lost on you. You only say it because you can't stand August's arrogance.

You don't like him.

Sanga smiles at you the way a doting mother listens to a child's babbling.

Like everyone else, you're completely transfixed by the sculpture, loose and effortless at first glance, yet exacting down to the last detail.

Of course, it may also have something to do with the blood barely circulating in your limbs after holding the same pose for so long.

Nothing an oxygen-starved brain sees can be trusted, but flattery never hurts.

Sanga props her chin on her hand and studies the sculpture. Then she reaches out and taps it lightly between the brows with one finger...

CRASH!!

The sculpture traces a graceful arc through the air, then slams into the floor.

Camille, or rather, that anxious face of yours, shatters into countless pieces.

August comes at the two of you in a fury.

It takes half a dozen pairs of hands, but they finally pin down the raging titan of the sculpting world.

Sanga takes hold of you gently from behind. Under August's badgering, her face stays perfectly calm.

She crouches down and gathers up the shattered pieces of the sculpture's face, one by one, then throws them onto the rubbish heap beside her.

Dear Mr. Claudel, Miss Sanga has not refused to come home, but she asks for a little more time. She told me: Once the Salon is over, I can go home. Even so, her condition of late worries me. Every night she slips out after dark and doesn't come back until dawn.

Strangely, sleeping through the day and living by night seems to fill her with energy, and even Mr. August is pleased with how much she's been getting done. She has become a stranger to me. Several nights now I have woken from nightmares to find her standing there beside my bed... She watches me without blinking, and her eyes are full of frightening things I cannot understand.

Tonight I have decided to follow her in secret and find out what she is really doing. Wish me luck. Camille@1 September, A.F.2@1

September in Cité is already bitterly cold. You walk silently down the street, trying to conceal yourself in the shadows.

Sanga walks ahead of you, thin and slight. You keep an even distance between you, as though an invisible thread quietly ties the two of you together.

The thread leads you both past building after building, through a long stretch of gloomy frost, until you reach the destination you share...

A forgotten grave.

You jerk your chin toward the grave in front of her, dug open nearly a foot deep.

Beaming, Sanga opens her hand for you to see. Her palm is slick with a black, syrupy fluid...

D-Slime. You know it all too well.

A gust of wind slips past and swallows the rest of Sanga's words. The moon has worked its way free of the banked clouds, spilling cold light over you both.

And then you see the scars on Sanga's neck.

They climb upward like coral tendrils, glinting a cold gray-blue whenever the moonlight shifts.

You know perfectly well this is only a dream, and still something in your chest stings for a moment.

After all, you carry every memory and feeling of the woman whose place you've taken, and this maid from the countryside outside Besançon loves her mistress dearly.

Sanga shakes her head.

It's an abandoned warehouse down by the sea, crowded with practice sculptures in every imaginable pose, each one grotesquely twisted.

Coral, shells, Tentacles, and buildings and creatures adorned with strange carvings... Their only commonality is their close connection to the ocean.

Sanga gives you a playful wink.

At the center of the cabin stands an unfinished sculpture of a human figure.

Its body is wrapped in snarling tentacles, wrenched into angles no body should hold. The veins in its neck stand out like a snake coiling under the skin.

You look at the sculpture in front of you. It is beautiful, no question. It is also cruel.

Sanga shakes her head.

Sanga traces the line of your face with her fingers.

Unlike the pampered young ladies of her class, her fingertips are lightly callused, rough in a way all their own.

You follow her words down into Camille's tangled memories, searching, going deeper...

Until you come to rest in one dim, blurred summer.

A thin mist of sorrow gathers in Sanga's gray eyes.

She pulls you into a gentle embrace.

You breathe shallowly into the crook of Sanga's neck, her scent all around you. The heady scent of ocean waves.

Sanga says nothing more. She turns to look out at the gray haze of the sea.

It is a night wrapped in fog. The waves roll in gently, in a rhythm as old as the world itself, like the pulse at the side of Sanga's neck.

After that day, Miss Sanga was gone.

I went everywhere I could go and asked everyone I could find, and learned nothing. She left us like a passing wind. Even now, that night by the sea comes back to me again and again.

Miss Sanga held me so tightly that night. Maybe she said something else to me afterward. Maybe she didn't. I don't know. That was the day my memory began to blur. White coral, spiral shells, a strange palace beneath the sea... Even now, those jumbled images torment me in the small hours of the night.

"Go to the salon exhibition. You'll find your answer there." That is what Miss Sanga told me. She also said...

You have my word.

Dear Mr. Claudel, So much has happened lately. Forgive me for taking so long to write back. Since Miss Sanga left, Mr. August has not produced a single piece worth a second glance. With the press turning against him, he announced that he was suspending his sculpting career indefinitely. He got exactly what he deserved, and still I cannot bring myself to feel glad, Miss Sanga is still missing.

Tomorrow I leave for the Cité salon exhibition, to look for the "answer" Miss Sanga spoke of. Wish me luck. Camille@1 September, A.F.2@1

Cité Salon Exhibition Opening Day

The exhibition's opening day draws a dense, restless crowd.

August's piece stands at the center of the hall, wrapped in layers of heavy cloth that only sharpen everyone's curiosity.

The crowd presses in around it, flashbulbs popping, voices rising and falling in a hum of speculation, until a staff member sweeps the cloth away.

As if someone has flipped a switch, the crowd goes quiet on its own, and the hall that was roaring a moment ago feels strangely empty.

You push your way through the crowd and finally see the piece at its center.

It's Sanga. Every trace of color and feeling has drained out of her; she has become a sculpture of pure white coral.

Bright daylight filters through the clear glass dome and falls across her, wrapping her in a soft, pale-gold glow.

You looked down at the brass plaque on the sculpture's pedestal. Above it, in elegant script, was engraved the sculpture's name: "The Nameless Ms. Coral".

You stare at the lettering, lost, and your mind seems to sway and twist along with those elegant strokes...

You lift a hand to rub your eyes, and find that somewhere along the way a coarse, dull white has crept over your fingers.

The white coral spreads out from between your fingers, swallowing you inch by inch, then races across the entire gallery, and then...

!!

You and the gallery burst apart together into countless white fragments, and all of them sink into the depths of an endless ocean.

Among countless white sculptures and coral, in the still morning light, the ruins of a white palace rise up.

Fish of every color weave through the ruins' crooked archways and corridors, idling the hours away.

The whole place seems left behind in the shadow of time, spared the wear of the world above, untouched by any crowd.

You drift through the warm seawater, staring at everything around you, entranced and bewildered.

A burst of shouting yanks you back to reality.

A ragged old man breaks through the ring of guards and lunges at you, clamping onto your hand.

He mutters under his breath. You study the face hidden beneath the wide hat brim and the thick beard, and something about it suddenly clicks.

The guests watch August from a careful distance, startled and afraid.

August flings your hand away and limps up to the sculpture, his eyes blazing with a hatred he can no longer hold back.

The sculpture stands silent before her former teacher's hysterical cursing, its detached expression unchanged.

August can't take it any longer. He lunges at the sculpture.

The hall dissolves into chaos. People surge in from every side, cutting you off from August entirely. All you can do is watch as the police haul him away.

Order finally returns to the exhibition hall.

August's last laugh, trembling, unhinged, fades like a ripple dying away, barely there at all, lingering in the emptied hall.

The Cité Salon Exhibition Opening Night

The last lock falls shut, and the hall sinks into pitch-black silence.

You step out of the shadows in the corner and stand before her once again.

The daytime crowds are gone. This is the right time to talk.

...

The sculpture stays silent. Every life around her has been knocked off course, and still she never lowers those eyes fixed on the far distance.

Moonlight comes through the tall windows and wraps her in a pale white haze.

You rise onto your toes, and only now do you see it: in the moonlight, those once distant, unfocused eyes have changed. They hold something specific now, something fierce.

She has been looking into the distance all along.

You turn around to follow where she is looking.

The moment your eyes drift, the exhibition hall beneath your feet vanishes, as though it had never been there at all.

In its place: an endless sea and a stretch of blinding white sand.

Thunder rolls somewhere far off. The tide heaves and surges, rushing toward you.

This is the sea you came to with Sanga.

Dear Mr. Claudel, "The Death of the Coral Woman" was a triumph in Cité. Everyone is talking about it. Whenever I look at that sculpture, I think of you. It's carved from a dull white material, very much like the stone that crept over your body until you could no longer move at all. But they won't let me touch the sculpture@1 I'll find a way.

Ms. Sanga finally realizes her wish. She exchanges her own life to achieve immortal art. But because of that, she has left us forever. It has been nearly a month since the exhibition, and I still miss her deeply. I will find her and bring her back home. Camille@1 A.F.2@1 August

You stumble down to the water's edge. There is no one here, only the dark, silent sea and a blurred horizon for company.

You gather up your skirts and run on and on down the long shoreline.

The rain comes down harder and harder, and your throat goes dry. In a storm like this, you have to scream just to hear your own voice.

Here... I'm over here...

Here@1hee hee hee here, here@2here, here, here...

Countless voices come at you from every direction. You can't hold yourself up any longer, and you drop to your knees on the sand.

Maybe none of it was ever real... maybe Miss Sanga is gone for good.

Somewhere along the way, the maid's mind began to swallow yours. Her hopes, her pain, they tug at something deep inside you.

You press your forehead into the wet sand, and a whimper you don't recognize escapes your throat.

Here... I'm here...

Something cold brushes your fingertips.

The white haze spreads from between your fingers again, like vines with a life of their own...

Slowly, methodically...

A pair of delicate leather shoes stops in front of you. Sanga stands over you with a carving knife in hand, her face as calm and distant as ever.

The soft haze of the distant lamps settles around Sanga. She smiles at you without a word.

Pain, disbelief, joy...

A thousand feelings churn in your chest. You open your mouth and find you can no longer shape a whole syllable.

Cold fingers trace your stiffening face.

Sanga looks at you with such love that her burning eyes could reduce you to ash.

You're dead...

...

You sink once more into the depths of the endless ocean.

Fragments long buried in memory drift past like pale foam, welling up and bursting, again and again...

In your final moments, you have no choice but to face the cruel truth...

...

You see the white palace of the ocean again. Plankton gather on the pale calcium carbonate, stretching their limbs in lazy drifts.

And you see the white sculptures again, adrift and aimless in the water.

Some of the faces are familiar. Mr. August still wears the rage and despair of the moment he threw himself at the sculpture.

So does Young Master Paul, his sunken eyes brimming with sorrow, as though he had known his fate long before it came.

The warm water closes around you, rising and falling like a song that never stops.

Before the eyes ever open the infant waves its little hands Clay held in its fingers a joy close to a mother's love The art of shaping the art of holding spreads from that day between the fingers The eyes open and all they see is born of beauty beauty beauty beauty beauty beauty beauty...

Cold arms fold gently around you. Sanga rests her soft cheek against your stiff shoulder.

She says your real name, clearly, and beyond all doubt.

Your mind blurs. The white coral has already spread over every inch of you.

Your blood and flesh turn heavy as stone, yet somehow the two of you keep rising, wrapped in foam and coral.

You stare at Sanga's face, eyes wide, until the pale gray coral closes over your pupils too.

You sink into a boundless void.

The sea, the coral, the sculptures, all of it drifts away from you. Only her voice remains.

The same voice as always. Gentle, and cold.

I promised you I'd take you home with me...

I promised you.