The first thing Philae sees upon waking up is a fresh apple on her table. Dazed for a moment, she breathes, chants, and falls back asleep without even realizing it. The room is quiet, with a faint incense wafting about. An amulet rests in her hand, her fingers feeling a cold sensation emanating from it. Recently, she has slowly gotten used to helping out with small matters. She is calmer and much more mature than when she bid farewell to the priests. She is now accustomed to the lively noise around her, receiving instructions for missions, her companions' cheerful banter, the cries of newborns, and the wails for the departed—she remembers all these sounds, shelving them away in the depths of her heart. During her meditations, she opens the cabinet within herself, and repeatedly relives those cherished feelings. But some feelings come late. They do not descend upon her when she casts her Arts, only lingering elsewhere, dormant and watching, before gently landing on her shoulder. Like when an obelisk crumbles, or cracks in a mud wall spread silently in the night, the lingering echoes of death intertwine with her Arts, slowly yet endlessly proliferating through Philae's mind, returning every time she casts her Arts. Even now, when she seems able to 'coexist with the shadows in her life and turn them into motivation', the clattering echoes remain. As she subconsciously falls back asleep from exhaustion, the 'clatter' wakes her up. Philae clutches her old amulet, rubbing every familiar scratch as she closes her eyes again, recalling the morning mist on the River of Life, the prayer stele at the end of the stone steps, the elder's wrinkled hands, and the 'clatter' repeatedly sounding between reality and dreams like falling dust. With her life of spiritual training, meditation feels more like relaxation to her, so she finds it impossible to determine if this stillness is an attempt at purification or escape. But she also knows that no one else can give her an answer, and she will never be able to convince herself with words borrowed from another. Philae sighs, rises from bed, and picks up the apple on the table. It is sweet, and as the juice spreads across her tongue, the 'clatter' stops. Life continues with the amulet in hand, now imbued with warmth. Philae slowly eats the apple. She has to go out, meet people, listen to the wind and rain, and hear the sounds of life and death, until it all drowns out the 'clatter' in her head.