Meanwhile, Shisabelle leaves the corridor and stops where the poor butterfly has fallen into the black widow's web. She squats down, pondering the nature of life. She wishes she could have saved it, but she realises such a wish can never be fulfilled. Someday, someone must die—and that is inevitable.
She notices the maple leaves, now yellow, orange, red, purple, and brown, for it is the earliest breath of winter. She takes one in her hand and ruminates on death and decay.
— Death. What is death? Why is it always so fearful to die? Why would God create life if we are meant to perish inevitably? And why do we grieve when others pass away? Why do we cling to memories of the dead—shouldn't we let go? Why must the living still hold business with the dead? Was death not meant as a release from the unendurable burden of decay? Do we truly die when we die—or do we merely journey onwards, to another place, another realm? I… I don't know. I don't know. Perhaps death is but a narrow passage: from fleeting struggle to eternal life, from the weary attempt to survive hardship into an everlasting rest—a drive to hell or heaven. I think…
Before she can continue, a crow lands on the ground beside her and says:
— What are you doing?
Startled, she studies it and murmurs:
— A talking crow? Am I dreaming? Or is this some illusion? Goddy!
She tries to ignore it and resumes speaking to herself:
— I think we are all destined to die. But at least we should cherish our lives, shouldn't we? And, God, I am irate: all lives are equal—even those of insects.
The crow cocks its head and replies:
— Interesting! And what makes you say this? Is it because that spider died?
She looks at it again, still uncertain.
— Woah... What… I thought you were an illusion. How can you speak? Is this a jest?
The crow lets out a dry laugh.
— Huh! An illusion, you say? Do I look like an illusion? Perhaps your eyes are fogged from weeping. Yet your second guess strikes right: I am indeed the work of jest—and of laughter, if one must speak his heart. Your humble servant, Jaughter, at your service. And you are…?
She bows her head slightly, half in disbelief.
— Goddy!! A real talking crow. Truly! I am pleased to know you, Mr Jaughter. I am Rheeh Shisabelle. Though… your form seems strange. Are you—
The crow interrupts, suspicion in its voice:
— Emmm... I can smell you are lying. That's not your name. I despise liars.
Shisabelle shifts uncomfortably and readies to depart.
— I must be going.
Before she can leave, the crow calls after her:
— I don't know why you lie, but at least answer my question.
— I am sorry. I must go. Nana will be looking for me.
The crow narrows its gaze.
— Ahh. Another lie. Very well. We shall meet soon, though—he in whose veins the blood of Miradiva runs. The Witch of Wonders, Miradiva Seelenvernebelt! Adieu!