In the last aisle of the library, the woman in the crimson beanie finished reading what Christopher had written the day before. Without wasting time, she picked up the pen and continued with her plan to save the poet.

With the same urgency, Christopher arrived the next day. He retrieved the notebook from its hiding place, took a seat on the same couch, and began to read.

 

The Second Corporal tightened the jacket they had placed over Christopher's head. The poet gasped for air as Sergeant Francisco repeatedly punched him in the face. It wasn't until the Sergeant's knuckles became bloodied that he stopped and took a moment to catch his breath, placing his hands on his knees. Then, with a nod of his head, he ordered the Second Corporal to release the prisoner.

Christopher slumped to the ground, curling up in a fetal position and gasping desperately for breath.

Don't die on me just yet," warned the Sergeant, "We need to take you to your grave first." He removed the jacket from Christopher's head.

Christopher's face was bruised, and he was bleeding from the lip and nose. He felt the Corporals lifting him by the shoulders as he watched the Sergeant leave the cell. They were about to take him away when screams and shouts echoed down the corridor.

The officers turned in alarm, gripping their rifles on reflex.

"What in the world is that?" said the First Corporal.

Immediately, a chaotic burst of gunfire and cries of pain erupted as if a war had broken out.

The Sergeant ordered the First Corporal to cover the entrance to the hallway.

"Are they coming to rescue you?" he interrogated the poet with a threatening tone, pointing the gun at his forehead. The poet couldn't respond due to the pain he was enduring. "When they arrive, they'll find you dead," the Sergeant snarled with contempt.

The Sergeant knew he couldn't shoot him in the cell, as it was not the proper procedure. If he did, the space would be filled with blood, and it would be evidence that he had not followed the execution law. Instead of getting his promotion, he might have his position revoked. But he had longed for this moment so much that, regardless of everything, he was on the verge of pulling the trigger.

"Sergeant, we can't hear the gunshots or screams anymore," whispered the First Corporal from the entrance.

For a moment, they stayed attentive in silence. Everything had calmed down.

"We should go out and see," suggested the Second Corporal, "they might need assistance."

The Sergeant turned to Christopher, filled with anger for not being able to finish him off right at that moment.

"The prisoner isn't going anywhere," the Second Corporal reminded him.

The Sergeant took a breath and reconsidered the situation. It was true; they needed to go out and check what had happened.

"Lock the cell," he ordered, "let's go see what the hell is going on upstairs." He joined the First Corporal, and with weapons in hand, they left the corridor.

The Second Corporal raised his rifle to his shoulder, left the cell, and locked the prisoner back in. But as he was about to insert the key into the lock, the poet grabbed his arm and, with all the vengeance he could muster, pulled him forward to slam into the bars. The Corporal was left dazed. Christopher took advantage and kicked the door, sending the officer flying.

He fell backward onto the floor, tried to get up, but the poet quickly approached and delivered a blow to his face that finished him off. The poet wiped the blood from his nose and lip, took the rifle, and cautiously advanced towards the stairs leading outside.

Upon exiting the dungeon, he found an empty courtyard. In the center was a concrete fountain, and on the edges, some plants on the grass. He was in one of the side corridors. He walked towards an open door. What he found inside left him motionless.

Amidst the complete chaos of that office, several dead officers lay with bleeding wounds. One was on the main desk of the police station, another leaned against the side of a filing cabinet, another in a corner with his head against the wall, and most were sprawled on the floor. He had a quick sense of having seen this scene before.

In the center of the room, on top of three bodies, was a woman with an imperial dress very similar to the one he had recently bought for... The woman turned with a nervous movement, one that only she could make, and when she looked him in the eyes, he confirmed it. It was the Mermaid. Her hair was disheveled, and her mouth was stained with blood, as was her entire chest and the front of her dress.

The poet stood frozen, completely petrified, while she looked at him with innocence, trying to convey that she had no other way to rescue him and that she was not a murderer. But at the same time, she was overwhelmed by shame, never wanting him to see her in this way.

"What do mermaids eat?" he had asked her on the sailboat, and she had replied that he wouldn't want to know. Those corpses scattered throughout the pirate ship had the same wounds as the officers. Those bites had not been the result of the Mermaid's seduction; it was she herself who had inflicted them. She fed on a particular kind of mammal; she fed on men.

A loud noise snapped him out of his recollection, and he watched as a bullet struck the Mermaid's shoulder, forcing her to take a step to stay on her feet. A demonic rage exploded within the poet. He turned his head to find the culprit and saw Sergeant Francisco reloading his weapon behind a desk; he hadn't noticed his presence. The poet then aimed his gun and shot him mercilessly. The bullet unexpectedly pierced the Sergeant's shoulder, and as he tried to figure out who had shot him, the poet hurried to help the Mermaid.

"Are you okay?" he asked desperately. The Mermaid couldn't answer; she was afraid of what he might be thinking about her. Her hands were trembling, and her face seemed pale.

The Sergeant managed to reload his weapon with one hand. He leaned the rifle on the table and aimed through the sight. He targeted the Mermaid, attempting to steady the barrel, which was shaking due to his frayed nerves.

"We need to get out of here," the poet said and took her hand.

As they approached the exit, the Sergeant's shot rang out. The bullet shattered one of the glass panels of the door as they escaped onto the street.

The Mermaid and the poet continued to run along the sidewalk until they reached the area where the police station had outdoor horse stables. The poet helped the Mermaid onto one of the horses, then climbed up himself, placing a foot in the stirrup. He took the reins and they rode off down the street.

A few seconds later, the Sergeant appeared with his rifle in hand and found them riding away on horseback. Immediately, he slung the rifle over his back and jumped onto another horse with a firmness that gave the impression he had never been injured. He grabbed the reins with a furious gesture and raced after them at full speed.

He feels excruciating pain spreading through every muscle in his body and perceives that his bones weigh so heavily that they seem to have been replaced by iridium. "Why have I woken up in this pit again?" is the first thought that comes to his mind. Then he realizes that the memories that seemed to have been erased forever and the peace that had brought him have returned to him. Someone has repaired them, even with the same flaws that time had caused.

But the weight of his body is nothing compared to the burden on his soul. He has no energy to move a single finger, and merely staying conscious causes a pain in his chest that extends down his limbs like swords tearing at his skin.

The first thing he notices upon waking up is a wooden ceiling. He is in a room of a country house, lying on a bed, under thermal blankets, with a woolen cap on his head.

"You're lucky," a voice exclaims. Christopher turns toward the door and finds a man in his forties dressed in a padded mountain vest and sports pants. He enters the room with a thermos and a plastic cup. He takes a seat at a chair and starts preparing a drink on the table. "If it hadn't been my day for mountaineering, I wouldn't have found you."

"Where am I?" Christopher asks with a broken and hoarse voice.

"You're not where the mermaids sing, I can assure you," the man responds with a hint of humor. "You were delirious from hypothermia. Did you get lost?"

"No."

“But what were you doing in the middle of nowhere?”

"I was looking for someone.”

"Were there others with you?" the man worries.

"No."

"Then?"

"I can't explain."

"Where were you headed?"

"Please, tell me where I am."

The man is puzzled. He rubs his beard, which is already quite gray.

"You're in the Chimborazo paramo. I have a cabin here that I rent out for events. Today, I have one, and it was on my way back that I found you lying on the ground." He lifts the cup to take a sip and, in the process, points at Christopher's elbow with a finger. "I also straightened your arm." He takes a drink and then offers some to Christopher.

In this situation, it would be logical to thank the man for rescuing him, but for Christopher, it hadn't been a rescue; instead, it had brought him back to suffering.

"Thank you," he lies with his gaze lowered and receives the cup of hot tea.

In the afternoon, the man invites Christopher to leave the room, and they explore the trails of that small complex. It's surrounded by grass and meadows.

As he stands in front of a stone-paved path that leads to the road, the wind rustles the leaves of the lush trees on the sides, and the fresh scent of sharpened pencils reminds him of her.

"Why did I wake up?" he wonders as he turns away from the path. Once again, coincidence was at play, and once again, he didn't know if he had been rescued for better or for worse.

He stops in front of a cabin. Music for dancing emanates from there. It must be the event the owner mentioned. There's a black car parked in front of the door. It seems the celebration is coming to an end.

Christopher places the last reflective piece and finally contemplates the complete object. Exhausted, he stands before a masterful cube, gazing at it with eyes that would desire the law of immortality, for the reflection that returns is still hers. He wishes to consume her once and for all, to quench the infinite thirst devouring him, before roaring endlessly with life.

It still gleams, covered in blood. He sits in a lotus position in front of the object. In the reflection, she does exactly the same.

Christopher closes his eyes, and in the night without dawn, he tries to merge his spirit with the universal essence. Logically, he falls into the abyss of cosmic existence. And at that moment, the cubic crystal ceases to rotate.

He opens his eyes and, seeing that she hasn't disappeared from the reflection, wonders why his own spirit, being infinite, yearns so much for that ephemeral and petty being.

Suddenly, she approaches the border of the reflection, getting so close that she breaks through the cube's limit and violates dimensional laws to stick her head out. "Why is love an immense and incessant yearning for the eternal, the immortal, and the divine?" he questions as she emerges entirely from the mirror. She sits in front of him in the same position. Christopher watches her and doesn't understand how she can be so perfect.

When he gazes directly into her pupils, he is absorbed again, once again blessed by that dream, by that irrevocable dream imprinted on his spirit, leading him to another moment from the past. But this time, it's not a blue one he experienced hand in hand with her. It's now a misty one, one that portends extinction, one of the first that destiny disintegrated like clouds scattered by the wind.

When Christopher retrieved the notebook from its hiding place to read the next chapter, he found it blank; she hadn't written it. He searched the entire notebook until he reached the end, but found nothing. That's when a piece of paper fell from the flap to the floor, with five lines written in an unknown code. Turning it over, he discovered a complete paragraph in the same code.

Sitting on the couch, he examined the letters in the hallway's silence, pondering what the key to decipher it could be. They both knew the next chapter would be the last. However, she didn't want to write the period; instead, she wished it to be just a separate point. The problem was that this separate point would remain as a period until the day she continued the story.

After comparing the coded message with the earlier passage, Christopher realized it was a letter game involving the alphabet. He opened the last page of the notebook and began transcribing them one by one. Upon finishing, he wrote the alphabet in reverse order below each letter and proceeded to replace the corresponding letters to finally decipher the message. It began by revealing his name and then said, "This is just a separate point."

The Mermaid and the poet had managed to gain an advantage over Sergeant Francisco, who had been pursuing them. They headed towards the rocky shore, just as she had suggested, with the intention of hiding beneath the sea and catching him by surprise.

"Here, here, here," she indicated when they entered the area.

The poet helped her dismount, and the Mermaid led him by the hand among the rocks, hiding behind the largest one. As she approached a puddle to clean the blood off, Christopher discovered that, behind a nearby rock, the sailboat that had brought them to Neptune was beached and loaded with supplies.

The poet turned to look at her excitedly, thinking they would escape together, almost forming a smile on his lips when he realized she wasn't happy.