The Last Film
Chapter
Congratulations, Bette.
Bette
- For me?
- Oh my god, I can finally stop pretending to be someone else on the big screen.
Victim C
Bette
- Ah!
- What’s happening?
What was that?
No matter how hard she tries, Bette can never pinpoint where the chaos began.
It feels like reality itself is caving in, as if someone had knocked over a dollhouse with one swift blow.
What’s going on?
The world is falling apart. Raindrops rise from the ground, defying gravity, while her thoughts plummet, free-falling into the pavement of the film set.
The scene flips. A woman’s scream echos in her ears, sharp and frantic. But it isn’t Bette’s voice. It belongs to someone else.
Bette
- Have I gotten too deep into my role and forgotten where the script ends and reality begins?
- Or was it something the camera captured?
She covers her mouth and nose with her hand, as if trying to suppress her rising panic.
Foundation Staff Member I
- Miss Bette, is this a good time?
Reality at last interrupts Bette’s stream of frantic thoughts. More pressing than fear, she needs to return to the present.
Bette
- Ahem … Come in.
A woman in a black-and-white business suit walks in, holding a thin folder in her right arm. Her face hidden under a white mask.
Seeing the masked woman, Bette instinctively touches her upper lip.
The mustache she had worn before was gone. The realization hits like an overwhelming sense of nakedness.
(Guest Room, Foundation)
Foundation Staff Member I
- Feeling any better after a night in your own bed?
Bette
- Me? Oh … I guess so …
She is still alive, at least.
Foundation Staff Member I
- Your body has recovered well. You should be able to begin the intake process today.
Though she can’t read her face behind the mask, the voice carries a certain kindness.
She takes out a form and places it in front of Bette.
Bette
- Intake …
Foundation Staff Member I
- There’s no rush. You have plenty of time to think it over. After all, you’ve been through a lot. You may need time to process it.
Bette takes the form and scrolls across it mechanically.
Bette
- ◇ St. Pavlov Foundation ◇
Name：___________
Gender：____________
Arcane Skill：___________
How many times has she filled out forms just like this over the years?
But the words only pass over her lips. They never sink in, never become anything meaningful.
Bette
- …
Bette stops reading and stares blankly at the form.
Foundation Staff Member I
- Do you have any questions?
Bette
- Outside …
Bette recalls the nightmare she had barely survived.
Bette
- What happened out there?
(Hallway, Foundation)
Bette
- …
- This …
The staff member leads Bette from the guest room and into the hallway. Here, she finally gets a glimpse beyond the Foundation’s sterile walls at the new era awaiting her.
Beyond the echoing footsteps and hushed voices in the hallway, a peaceful scene unfolds.
A deep blue lake stretching far across the horizon, a white sailboat drifting toward its center.
On the shore, a family sits on a pale pink picnic blanket. The children are running in and out of the shade of the trees, while their mother watches them from the edge of the grass.
Foundation Staff Member I
- The outside world is safe now. Once you’ve recovered, you’ll be free to leave the Foundation, though few choose to.
The sunlight is soft, carving out crisp shadows without feeling harsh or glaring.
The air beyond is fresh, a stark contrast to the chlorine-laced sterility of the hospital. It feels like the real world.
But Bette frowns, staring at the idyllic scene in disbelief.
Bette
- There’s something strange here … eerie almost.
Her pupils tremble, and the illusion of peace shatters—but this disaster is one only she can see.
Foundation Staff Member I
- You’re not the first to say that.
The world is still beautiful; yesterday no different from today. So what exactly have I lost?
Bette glances at the staff member beside her. Her voice calm, her masked face unmoving—yet Bette can tell she is still wearing that same rehearsed smile.
Foundation Staff Member I
- The world is mostly the same, but there are things that have changed.
- Hmm …
The staff member takes out a pen, resting the cap against her lips as she ponders for a moment.
Foundation Staff Member I
- That house has a new roof, and the trees have grown taller.
- That park over there—its fence used to be black, the paint was peeling off. Now it’s white.
She points at them with the pen, speaking as if these shifts were the most natural thing in the world.
Her gaze returns to Bette.
Foundation Staff Member I
- If you want to understand what you’ve been through, you can attend the Foundation’s information session once you’ve recovered. You’ll get some answers there.
- We’ve developed a standard recovery process for survivors of the “Storm.”
- It will help you move past the trauma, adjust to your new life, and if you choose, join us in assisting others.
- You’re free to go about the facility as you please. If you’d like, you might want to visit the other survivor who arrived with you.
- Welcome to the world after the “Storm.”
Bette
- “The other survivor”?
The screams in her ears never really faded. If anything, they have grown sharper.
Foundation Staff Member I
- Yes. I believe she was your colleague.
The staff member flips through the folder, searching for a particular page.
Foundation Staff Member I
- Her name is Jones.
Bette
- Jones …
Jones
- I hate this place.
Jones braces herself against the fake brick-patterned wooden panel with one hand, pressing down her wind-blown hat with the other.
Her elegant face is caked in thick, exaggerated makeup.
Jones
- It’s so high up, and the walls feel awful! They just slapped these painted panels on and called it a day! Why should I have expected better when they call this mess on my face “makeup”?
Perched atop the tower set, Jones makes no effort to hide her frustration.
Jones
- My eyes sting! This foundation is already running like a soup—I feel like I’m going to pass out!
Bette
- I’ll try to get this in one take so we can wrap up.
Bette keeps her head down, double-checking the harness around her waist, making sure it doesn’t peek into the shot.
In a few moments, she will be playing the male lead, leaping off the tower right in front of Jones.
Jones
- You’d better get it in one take, Miss Bette. I heard you’re a real professional.
Bette
- Uh … yeah.
The grumbled compliment leaves Bette unsure whether it is genuine or sarcastic.
She returns to the safety checks, not wanting to push Jones’s temper.
A top Hollywood star like her could have Bette fired with a snap of her fingers.
Jones
- When are they calling action? They—
Her words are cut off abruptly, like someone sliced them clean through. Bette glances up in confusion, trying to see what has caught her attention.
Jones
- What is that?!
Bette
- Hm?
Jones’s body stiffens as she looks ahead.
Jones
- Something’s wrong.
Bette
- …
Following the same eyeline, Bette turns toward something beyond her comprehension.
The sky begins to take on a kaleidoscope-like panoply of colors, the phenomenon spreading out like a flood over the horizon.
Reality begins to unravel around them, leaving the tower standing out like a strange island.
Until it collapses.
(Ward)
Foundation Staff Member I
- She’s inside.
Bette
- Thank you …
The staff member leaves her just outside the door.
Beyond the thick glass, a woman lies inside a capsule-like machine, her face wrapped in bandages. Several grayish-white square monitors are angled toward the head of the device, watching over Jones.
The room is silent except for the rhythmic beeping of machines.
Bette
- Jones?
At the sound of Bette’s voice, the woman turns her head toward the window.
Bette places her hand against the glass, and the screams begin to fade, replaced by shallow, raspy breaths.
(TO BE CONTINUED …)
(Meeting Room, Foundation)
Foundation Staff Member II
- The “Storm” is a temporal anomaly of unknown origin. Before it arrives, the world enters a state known as the Storm Syndrome …
A Foundation staff member sits at the speaker’s table, delivering a monotonous, rigid explanation of concepts far beyond Bette’s imagination.
The white-tiered conference hall is filled with other people—all survivors of the “Storm.”
Foundation Staff Member II
- Raindrops will be observed rising from the ground into the sky, and then almost simultaneously the entire era is replaced.
Bette finds herself drawn away from the lecture and onto the faces around her; few seem as lost as she feels, as though they had known this disaster was coming, and now this lecture is merely filling in the details.
Foundation Staff Member II
- And the St. Pavlov Foundation provides …
Bette begins analyzing each person’s attire, trying to piece together the lives they had once led.
Bette
- Cornflower blue wool suit, perfectly tailored. Gold-striped brown tie, gold watch on the left wrist … A stockbroker?
- Champagne dress with a white fur shawl, pearl necklace … A wealthy housewife?
Bette continues.
Bette
- Beret, fishing vest … Maybe even a red clown nose, just like the director …
- …
- If only it really were the director …
This is not a good time to be alive.
The streets at night feel like a jungle, the few remaining lights flickering like fireflies in the darkness.
A man walks past one dimly lit alley after another.
With the economy in ruins, people go to bed early—not just to save on lighting, but to sleep through their hunger.
Man
- Hunger … won’t matter soon. This will all be over.
The metal buttons on his top hat occasionally catch stray beams of light, and the tip of his cane scrapes against the walls as he walks.
He pays no mind to the homeless huddling near the alley’s entrance, striding toward a dimly lit restaurant.
The door is locked. Through the fogged-up glass, a faint silhouette moves inside.
A flickering streetlight casts an uneven glow onto the asphalt, and the shadow beneath it grows and then swallows up the last slivers of light.
Click. The restaurant’s sign goes dark.
Man
- Wait!
The man hurries forward, reaching the door.
Man
- It’s me!
The shadow inside hesitates, then thick wooden boards are pulled aside, iron chains unwind, and finally, a lock is undone.
Restaurant Owner
- Bette?
The apparent man grins and removes his hat, a thick, neatly braided plait falling out over his shoulder.
Man
- Got any meat left?
The shape beneath the man’s clothes begins to shift. In a moment, his silhouette transforms into that of a familiar woman.
Bette
- I could do for a steak if you’ve got any.
Restaurant Owner
- Steak? What, you think this is the Ritz?
The owner turns and walks toward the kitchen, waving Bette inside.
Restaurant Owner
- All I’ve got is a bit of Hoover stew.
Bette
- Make mine with a bit of meat, then!
Bette beams; the fake mustache on her upper lip shifts awkwardly with her smile.
She slaps a handful of bills onto the counter and spreads her arms wide.
Bette
- I landed a speaking role!
- Must’ve been thanks to that stew from last time …
- Meat really does make everything better …
The owner doesn’t turn from his task as he stirs a pot of congealing stew.
Restaurant Owner
- Is that right?
The fire crackles beneath the pot, melting the hardened fats and releasing a thin but enticing aroma.
Bette
- Mhm!
She grips the edge of the counter with a wide, almost childlike smile, anticipating the coming meal.
The owner scrapes the pot’s sides to pull up a portion of stew, placing it in front of her with care.
*Thud*
The weight of the plate makes a satisfying sound as it falls on the counter.
Restaurant Owner
- It’s on the house. For all the scripts you memorized but never got to perform. You’ve earned it.
Bette
- Thanks.
Bette picks up her spoon, taking one bite after another of the hearty stew. Tomato sauce splatters on her white shirt as its warmth hits her empty stomach.
Her eyes readjust, falling on a figure in the front row as she tightens her grip on her pen.
Bette
- If only I had finished filming my scene before the “Storm” hit. Just three lines, and I would have been a star.
“Yes!”
1/3
“No!”
2/3
“Ah—”
3/3
Bette replays the moment in her mind, recalling the lines she had rehearsed a hundred times, hoping they would bring up the same feeling of pride they did before.
Foundation Staff Member II
- Now, if everyone could leave their completed forms here …
The staff member’s voice yanks Bette out from her thoughts.
One by one, the people in the hall stand, forming a quiet, orderly line to hand in their forms. The staff member at the desk sorts through them efficiently.
Bette
- …
- So each time there’s a “Storm,” does the St. Pavlov Foundation take in people like us—those who are out of their era?
- It feels like … a bedside drawer for time itself. And right now, my era is what’s being stored away.
- What about the ones who don’t join? Will my era ever return?
More and more people leave the hall, as a sudden sense of abandonment crashes over Bette.
Bette
- I can’t fall behind.
With that thought, she fills out her form in a rush, hands it to the staff member, and follows the others out.
Bette
- …
Standing in the hallway, Bette looks toward both ends of the corridor.
It dawns on her that people in this era seem not to be the sort to linger; Bette watches as their backs disappear into the distance, step by step, swallowed up by the corner where two walls meet.
Her fear of falling behind might have been shared, but it gives her no sense of belonging.
Bette touches her stomach, neither hungry nor full.
There are no more films to shoot; what then is she supposed to do?
Restaurant Owner
- You’re sure to be a Hollywood star, Bette.
As the lights go out and the restaurant door is locked again, the owner turns and reassures her.
Restaurant Owner
- You’re going to wake up every day to a champagne tower.
Bette
- I guess I should go see Jones, because …
I never had a champagne tower to begin with.
(TO BE CONTINUED …)
Jones hasn’t moved from the capsule-like bed; her face still hidden under layers of bandages. Right now, she is more suited to play a mummy than a princess.
Bette catches the thought before letting it hit her.
A thin white sheet covers Jones’s frail frame, the folds rising and falling like mountain ridges between her body and the bed.
As Bette enters and approaches, the once-princess opens her eyes.
Jones
- It’s you …
Tearful Leading Lady: It’s you …
On screen, she is stunning and lovely; even lying on thick, soft pillows, her wavy, short hair remains smooth and neat.
Her dark brows furrow slightly as she gazes tearfully at her lover.
Tearful Leading Lady: I swore I would never see you again.
But now, she clings to life in this strange glass coffin.
Jones
- You saved me … otherwise …
- I would have broken my neck long ago …
Bette freezes in place; she has no memory of what happened after the fall.
Jones
- Come closer …
Her voice, devoid of vitality, drifts out like a spirit and dissolves into the air, leaving Bette to guess at the words from her weathered lips.
She moves closer until she reaches the glass barrier, remarking that she has never been this near to Jones before.
Jones
- What about the others?
The radiance has faded from her eyes. They’re two glass beads that look around and seem to find some refuge when they meet Bette’s own.
Bette
- The others …
She means the film crew, back in the unfinished past that Bette and Jones left behind in the 1930s.
Bette opens her mouth, looking at Jones’s frail state. She can’t bear to part with the obvious truth that hangs on her lips—a lie slips out instead.
Bette
- They’re outside.
Outside the Foundation.
Outside the era.
Bette
- Don’t worry about them.
Bette stammers out in fear that Jones will press further. Outside? Where? Doing what?
But Jones only nods before asking her next question.
Jones
- What about the camera?
Her eyes search the room weakly.
Jones
- I had the camera with me.
Bette notices the red veins cascading over the whites of Jones’s eyes, making them seem almost translucent.
Jones
- Where is it?
Bette
- …
Jones falls into a seizure. Bette isn’t even sure how their conversation ended—maybe someone else had stopped it.
At some point, a nurse rushes in with a syringe in her hand.
???
- Chlorpromazine, watch the dosage.
A clear liquid flows through the milky-white tube and into Jones’s body.
???
- Initiate emergency measures. Clear the room.
Bette trembles, unwilling to recall what had just happened in that ward. Jones had been like a thread-thin wire strung around her own neck, and Bette was holding the other end.
Bette
- It felt like if I moved my finger, Jones would fall away right before my eyes …
- A fragile safety line.
A “safety line”—a term among stunt actors for the harness that ensured their survival.
???
- Looks like the “Storm” really did a number on her.
A hand lands on Bette’s shoulder from behind. She turns to see the nurse who had just attended to Jones greeting her.
???
- And you lied to her.
Bette shoots a questioning stare at the nurse, who tilts her chin toward a storage room.
???
- Let’s talk.
The window is wide open in the otherwise cramped and narrow room. But outside, there is nothing to see—just the face of another wall, pockmarked with bumps and ridges so close that one could almost reach out and touch it.
The nurse introduces herself as Laura as she stands by the window, leaning outside with a cigarette in hand.
Laura
- You’re not even her little sidekick, are you?
Bette reveals the details of their story, and Laura turns back, exhaling a puff of smoke like a dragon’s fire into Bette’s face.
Bette
- *cough* … *cough*! Hey! What the hell?!
She waves her hand in disgust to disperse the smoke; Laura only laughs.
Laura
- Go on, wave faster. This thing’s sensitive as hell. If it detects me smoking, it’ll spray and drench us both.
Bette
- You shouldn’t be smoking here in the first place!
Laura
- Yeah, so what? The world’s gone insane; you really think rules matter anymore?
Laura stubs out the cigarette on the window frame, already covered in blackened marks.
Laura
- You’re just not used to it yet.
Bette doesn’t respond, brushing off the smoke clinging to her clothes.
Laura
- You’re from the 1930s, right? Huh … hmm …
Laura studies Bette with a cocked head and a breezy, if unfriendly, smile.
Laura
- So, what’s your arcane skill?
Bette
- I can alter my physique and appearance temporarily. It’s useful for my line of work.
- Though I can never get my face to be perfectly identical to someone else, so close-ups aren’t really a thing for me.
Laura
- Oh … that’s all?
Bette
- Not all of it, no. If I shift into a stronger form, my strength increases with it too. Maybe that’s not the flashiest arcane skill, but it’s been good enough for me.
Laura shakes her head, thoroughly unimpressed.
Laura
- You can make muscles on command and change your face, but not by much. Seems like all you are is a bad actor with a fake mustache. So, what else have you got?
Bette
- What?
Laura
- Y’know, something interesting, maybe a collectible, like Jones’s camera.
- I know a buyer. He collects interesting stuff. I’d take a cut, of course.
- Doesn’t have to be expensive. Any old thing can still sell for a good price.
- I once sold a broken copper pendant. Looked like junk, but it had a picture of the original owner’s daughter inside. Someone paid a fortune for it just because of that sentimentality.
Bette stares at the nurse in shock.
Bette
- Is that all you dragged me in here for? You want Jones’s camera?
Laura
- Collectors are crazy about stuff like that. You get to name the price on stuff like that.
- I’m just saying, if you want some cash, reach out. Oh, and here’s the process for reclaiming lost items.
Laura pats Bette’s shoulder as she leaves.
(TO BE CONTINUED …)
Bette
- …
- The “Storm” …
The memories of that day keep looping in her mind.
She desperately wants to make sense of it, but her thoughts are blocked, like a fly slamming up on a window over and over again.
Bette
- …
Bette sits up, flips her pillow to the foot of the bed, then dives into it, burying her face entirely within the plush.
Bette
- …
- Hah—!
She flips onto her back, gasping for air.
Bette
- I can’t sleep! What is this? I feel like I did the night before my first audition! Even then I got sleep …
- What are the symptoms of insomnia again? Memory loss, muscle atrophy, poor focus … If I can’t sleep, then tomorrow I might mess up on set—
- There’s no set to mess up on …
She lets her eyes drift up to the unreachable ceiling. The clock ticks away valiantly as it erodes through the past, present, and future.
Until now, she never realized it.
Bette
- It’s too quiet. No snoring. No crying. No creaky beds or shouting matches through the walls.
- Cheap motels have got more life than this …
Bette switches on the TV in the corner of the room.
Inside the glowing silver box, a cowboy gallops across the American frontier.
Wearing the bravest grin and wielding the quickest six-shooter, caught in the peak of his heroic moment.
Bette
- I guess it doesn’t matter the era … Whether it’s big or small, there’s always a square world to escape into.
She falls back flat on the bed.
Voices, gunfire, the pounding of hooves, and other sounds she can’t quite place echo in her ears.
Bette
- So lively.
The noise is familiar to her. Comforting noise brings the promise of sleep.
The TV screen flickers erratically against the dark room, dialogue dissolving into a blur …
Smooth jazz replaces the voices. White credits roll up the screen and brighten the room, but Bette is already fast asleep.
???
- Bette, Bette! Over here!
In the cluttered alley, a child’s voice calls out from beside her.
Bette
- Tom?
Tom
- Here!
The voice buzzes from inside a pipe beyond the weathered wall.
Tom
- Did you forget how to get in?
Bette
- I remember!
- Climb onto the trash bin and slip through the old storage room’s tiny window.
- Then head to the third screening hall. The staff door is never locked. We can sneak in there.
As soon as Bette thinks it, she finds herself standing beneath a movie screen.
Tom
- Ah, my neck hurts from craning like this. Heck! Why does the usher have to sit at the back today?
Bette sits cross-legged in the front row chair, tilting her head all the way back, engrossed in the movie.
Up this close, the screen is slightly warped, but she isn’t bothered in the least.
A train speeds through the Western desert. The heroine is held at gunpoint.
Bette
- No!
Seeing the heroine in danger, Bette covers her eyes.
Tom
- Keep your trap shut! Or the ticket guy is going to figure out we’re down here.
She nods, sliding her hands over her mouth instead.
Cowboy William staggers from a gunshot, red spilling out from his body.
Then, miraculously, he gets back up and pulls out a pie—baked rock-solid at the bottom by the heroine—from his vest.
He knocks the villain flat with the pie and saves the heroine.
THE END
A happy ending.
Bette
- I wouldn’t mind a slice of that pie.
The word “END” flickers on the screen, but Tom isn’t paying it any attention.
Tom
- That was keen, wasn’t it? A real cowboy! Wish I could be that guy! Pew pew!
Bette
- You’re so childish.
Tom
- If I were a real big-shot cowboy, I’d keep the entire town safe as houses. And the saloon keeper would save the best seat at the bar just for me.
Tom rubs his frostbitten feet; the motion reveals a stolen piece of black bread that juts out from his coat pocket.
Bette
- But Cowboy William is in Creekwood Town. There won’t be any danger left. You’ll have to find another place.
Tom
- Obviously. I’d never go to Creekwood—that place ain’t even real.
Bette
- Not real? But the movie is—
Tom
- It’s just a made-up story with actors on a fake set. There’s no such town as Creekwood and no Cowboy William. You don’t really think everything in the movies is real, do you, dummy?
Bette
- Oh … so that’s how it is …
But instead of disappointment, she looks somehow even happier.
Bette
- That just means it’s a place I really can reach.
Tom
- What? Don’t you get it?
Bette
- Yeah, it’s a fake world. But that means I can create my own world too.
- A world without unemployment, without poverty, without hunger, without cold …
- Where everyone has enough food in their bellies and a warm, soft bed at night.
- It’d have music playing endlessly, the summers would always be bright and sunny, and the winters cozy and cheerful.
- It’d be a place where people can forget the pain and regrets of reality—to laugh or cry for someone else, even just for a while …
- A square world that protects people, a picture of beauty and hope.
- That’s the world I want to make for me, and for everyone else too.
Sunlight pours in, and the white curtains ripple gently with a faint breeze.
Music floats out from the television; notes flowing with time, over and over—second movement, third movement—twisting, looping, intertwining …
Bette
- …
She lies still on her back, trying to hold onto her dream.
But it fades from her mind like sand slipping through her fingers.
Bette
- Why did I remember something from so long ago …
- Tom …
Tom died on a winter’s day, years ago. His father, laid off and unemployed, had clung on to him as he perished beside a coal stove.
Bette had forgotten his face until last night.
Thinking back on last night’s dream, Bette returns to the lost-and-found section.
A few people are milling around in the section, the two clerks behind the counter are chatting away.
Bette
- Hi, I’m here to collect this camera.
Bette hands over her documents to the clerk.
Foundation Staff Member II
- Oh wow, you made it!
At the woman’s exclamation, a few warehouse staff peek out, eyeing Bette with curiosity.
Bette
- You know me?
Foundation Staff Member II
- Of course! Everyone is talking about you two! A lady with half her face soaked in blood was found dragging you with one arm and clutching a camera with the other. How is she doing?
The surrounding employees nod in unison, vividly describing the scene.
Bette
- She survived.
- You mean that Jones saved me?
Foundation Staff Member II
- She did, and that camera too. At first, we thought this thing might be some kind of Awakened. But it’s just an ordinary old thing.
The staff have already fetched the camera from storage. They chat excitedly about Bette, Jones, and the camera, marveling at the bond between them.
Watching them, Bette pictures a white figure in her mind, smoke swirling above her head.
Bette
- Laura doesn’t belong to any era anymore. She’s just a heartless bastard who doesn’t care about emotions … She’ll never understand.
At the tail end of their conversation, the woman looks regretfully at the camera before handing it to Bette.
Foundation Staff Member II
- Tsk, tsk … What could be inside this thing that’s worth so much trouble?
Reaching over the counter, Bette takes the camera. There are still splotches of dried blood on it, but she holds it close to her chest.
Bette
- Outside that square box, I can protect your dreams too, Jones. You’ll wake up, and we’ll finish this film together.
- This is the very last movie of the 1930s.
(TO BE CONTINUED …)
Jones’s condition remains unstable. Most of the time, Bette just sits in the ward, rewriting the script from memory—the real one had been lost to the “Storm.”
Occasionally, Jones awakens for a brief moment.
Jones
- Bette, what time is it?
Her voice has lost all trace of its former haughty confident tone. Fragility strips everyone of their dignity.
Bette pauses her writing to glance up at the clock.
Bette
- 2 PM.
Jones doesn’t seem to respond to the answer one way or another. Bette scrutinizes her frail face, trying to figure out what she is thinking.
Maybe she is wondering how long she has been out. Maybe she is wondering why Bette is there. Or maybe she isn’t thinking about anything at all.
On rarer occasions, Jones even gains the strength to ask about the film.
Jones
- How far have they gotten?
Bette
- Scene 14.
It is the latest scene Bette has rewritten from memory. She’s been waiting for Jones to recover so they can pick up where the film reel left off and finish the movie.
Jones
- But if I’m not there, what are they shooting?
Bette rubs the corner of the script between her thumb and forefinger, rolling it into a tiny curl.
Bette
- They’re shooting other scenes first. They’ll do the reshoots once you’re discharged.
Bette glances up to avoid meeting her eyes. Jones lies back in the glass chamber without a response.
Bette
- Everyone misses you. Though the script supervisor is a bit peeved because the shots are getting so scattered, keeping track of the takes is a hassle.
Jones
- Bette …
Bette
- Hm?
Jones
- I’ve been lying here too long. I’ve practically burned a hole in the ceiling with my eyes.
- Could you bring me some pictures of the outside?
- And some photos of the crew. I miss them.
Bette
- But the director doesn’t allow pictures on set.
Bette wants desperately to find an excuse, but Jones’s eyes meet hers through the layers of gauze, saying nothing, waiting …
Bette
- Ugh—
Bette closes the script.
Bette
- Alright, I’m sure they’ll make an exception for you.
The lake shimmers. Women in light dresses stroll through the grass. Men with fishing rods lie by the shore, releasing their catches back into the water.
Bette
- But this isn’t the scenery I need …
Bette hurries past them, carrying a rounded bag on her back.
She finds a quiet spot and sets the bag down.
Bette
- This place, at least, doesn’t have any strange buildings in the background. You could almost mistake it for the original filming location.
After agreeing to Jones’s request, Bette devised this little trick to deceive the Foundation.
Once she settles on a good angle, she pulls out her camera and rummages through the clothes, slipping on a fishing vest and a beret.
Bette
- The director was always wearing something like this … But now …
Bette hesitates, searching around. She realizes only now that she can’t be the director and take the picture at the same time. She needs someone to press the shutter for her.
A young woman sits on the grass not far away, sketching the landscape. Bette takes a deep breath and approaches.
Bette
- Excuse me, miss.
Young Woman
- Oui, que voulez-vous ?
(Yes, do you need some help?)
The woman lifts her hand to shield her eyes from the sunlight and squints up at Bette.
Bette
- Ah?!
Bette stares at her lips, fully stunned as fluid, pearl-like words roll out—words she doesn’t know in the slightest.
Young Woman
- Tu vas bien ?
(Are you okay?)
The sound reaches Bette’s ears, this time more familiar, but still indecipherable. She can at least tell from the woman’s expression that she meant no harm.
Looking around, Bette doesn’t see anyone else who might help. She has no choice but to rely on a more universal “language.”
Bette
- Can you … please …
Bette gestures with her box camera.
Young Woman
- Est-ce que vous voulez que je prenne une photo ?
(Do you want me to take a photo for you?)
Bette
- Photo! Yes!
Young Woman
- Bien sûr.
(Of course.)
The woman gives her a small nod with a shy smile, and Bette thanks her.
Bette
- Thank you!
Then, using her arcane skill, she transforms into an almost perfect match for the director’s face and shape. She turns her face slightly toward the camera, posing as if shouting directions off-set.
Beforehand, she had practiced many angles in front of a mirror—this one proved the most convincing.
The director’s slightly upturned nose and thick, coarse eyebrows were his defining features. As long as they’re visible, even he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
Young Woman
- Ouah !
“Click!” The woman presses the shutter, capturing a photo so realistic it could fool anyone.
Young Woman
- Épatant !
(Amazing!)
Bette
- Hold on, just a moment!
Bette rummages through her bag, pulling out another lead actor’s costume. She shifts her form again, then lies down on the grass, covering her face with a magazine, pretending to be asleep.
“Click!” The woman presses the shutter again.
Young Woman
- C’est incroyable !
(That’s incredible!)
As Bette continues changing outfits and forms, a few curious onlookers begin to gather around. In the distance, more people stop to watch.
Bette doesn’t want any unnecessary attention, but it comes all the same.
After switching into a few more outfits, she thanks the woman profusely with awkward “mercies” as she packs up her clothes before hurrying back to the Foundation.
Holding the freshly developed photos, Bette runs to Jones’s ward.
Jones
- Bette …
Jones looks up at her with longing eyes. Bette hesitates, holding the photos inward, until finally pressing them against the glass chamber.
Bette
- The director said it was alright, so I took plenty of pictures.
Jones’s eyes lit up. She gazes at the photos with tearful wonder, seeing familiar faces she hasn’t seen in so long—everyone alive and well, moving forward with their lives.
She flips through the images one by one before finally speaking.
Jones
- They look … wonderful.
The bandages near her eyes grow dark with moisture, and her body trembles slightly.
It’s as if she could feel the life in those moments through the photos; she seems unwilling to look away for even a second.
Seeing her reaction, Bette’s tense nerves ease visibly.
Jones
- Thank you, Bette.
The fabric of her bandages absorbs tear after tear. Jones slowly closes her eyes.
Jones
- Can you do me one more favor?
Bette
- Yeah?
Her wounded friend adopts a determined expression that defies all weakness.
Jones
- Would you show me what my face looks like now?
Bette
- …
Bette freezes.
Bette
- But …
She looks into Jones’s reddened eyes before averting her gaze again.
Bette
- There aren’t any mirrors here …
She scans the room, double-checking her spur-of-the-moment excuse.
Bette
- And I don’t think you’re ready to remove your bandages. What if it pulls at your wounds?
Jones
- But you saw me when they changed my dressing, didn’t you?
Bette
- I …
Jones
- So, use your arcane skill. Show me. I need to know how long until I can get back to filming.
Jones’s frail fingers press against the inner glass of the chamber, pleading with Bette, who has the freedom to roam the world outside.
Jones
- Just let me see, just for a minute.
Bette
- But you know my arcane skill can’t make me look exactly like you.
Jones
- I know that … I just need a glimpse.
Bette
- Today … Today, I’m not really feeling up to it …
Jones’s trembling fingers rest against the glass, a reminder that she is trapped inside.
Bette
- …
Bette looks deep into Jones’s pleading face, takes a deep breath, and closes her eyes.
Jones
- I hate this place.
Back then, Jones had been untouchable—radiant and dazzling, the kind of star Bette could only admire from afar.
Jones
- Come over here, Bette.
Bette trembles in her step. She forces herself to push aside the image of Jones’s scarred face burning in her memory, afraid it might color her transformation.
Jones
- …
Jones studies her closely, while Bette anxiously follows her gaze, terrified that Jones might notice some telling flaw, a hint of her scars.
But instead, Jones smiles and laughs weakly.
Jones
- You haven’t got my eyebrows right at all!
Bette
- Huh?
Hearing her chuckle, Bette flushes red and turns away.
Bette
- How about this?
Jones
- Hmm … that’s better. But the nose isn’t quite right either—it should be a little taller.
Bette
- Really?
Bette pinches the bridge of her nose, making it appear more defined.
Jones
- Now it’s too much. That looks ridiculous.
From Bette’s perspective, her nose now seems oddly exaggerated. She looks at it, trying to tweak it into something more natural—only to end up cross-eyed.
Bette
- Pfft.
Even Bette can’t help but laugh.
Jones
- Haha … you’re making me look more Vaudeville than Hollywood, Bette.
Bette
- Hahahaha—
After a good laugh, Bette falls silent.
She doesn’t dare meet Jones’s eyes again. Instead, she leans against the glass chamber, staring at the floor.
Sometimes, emotions spread through the air like mist, lingering between words unspoken.
Jones
- Why are you crying?
Bette
- Why are you crying?
Bette’s reply is petulant, like a child throwing a tantrum. A faint shimmer passes over her, and she returns to her own form.
Jones
- You just … look familiar. You remind me of someone …
Bette
- Who?
Jones takes a deep, hoarse breath and slowly exhales.
Jones
- I’m too tired now. I’ll tell you some other time.
Bette wipes her nose and nods affirmatively.
Bette
- Then I’ll head back for today. Get some rest.
Bette lets her fingertips rest against the glass chamber, mirroring Jones’s hand. She almost thought she could feel her warmth.
Jones
- Thank you.
Bette shakes her head, then turns to leave wordlessly.
(TO BE CONTINUED …)
In the days that follow, Jones’s mood seems to perk up.
She asks Bette to read the newspaper to her, take pictures of the park, and even turn the glass chamber so she could bask in the sun.
Jones
- In winter, we’d set the snow up into different piles, pick a few, and sprinkle sugar on them.
Sometimes, they just talk like old friends.
Jones
- If we were lucky, we’d get a sweet one. If not, we might end up eating sawdust.
Bette
- You played games like that as a kid?
Jones
- Silly girl.
Jones lets out a weak chuckle.
Jones
- Before I became famous, I was just a little country girl.
Bette
- Hm?
Bette feels a twinge of something unfamiliar.
Jones
- What’s happening?
Bette shakes her head.
Bette
- When I was little, I used to sneak into the cinema. It was crowded, but at least it was warm.
- I loved watching movies. They let me forget the bad things in real life for a while …
- I felt like … they were saving my numb little heart.
- That’s why I wanted to make movies—because I wanted to be one of those people.
Jones
- Hmm …
Jones watches Bette, a hint of resignation on her face.
Jones
- Then, we need to make a movie.
Bette
- Now?
Jones
- We have a camera, don’t we? Just letting it sit there is a waste.
Bette
- What are we filming?
Jones smiles.
Jones
- You.
- Follow Bette. Medium shot. Upper body.
At Jones’s command, the insect-like base carrying the camera moves toward Bette, angling the lens at her.
The device has been modified to respond to her commands.
Even confined to the glass chamber, Jones can still direct the shots she wants.
Bette
- What’s there to film about me?
Bette looks down with a red face at the camera as it tracks her. It feels so much different from when she had been a stunt double—the lens is capturing the real her now, and she doesn’t handle it well.
Jones
- Better than filming me in this state.
Jones shrugs.
Jones
- Now, don’t just stand there staring at it. Do your thing.
Bette
- My thing?
Jones
- You know … something. Why not read me the newspaper?
Bette nods, grabs the paper, and sits beside Jones.
She begins reading, stumbling at first over simple words. But slowly she finds herself focusing on the text, not the camera, and begins to relax.
Jones
- That’s it. A good actor forgets the camera is even there.
Bette
- Camera?!
She has indeed forgotten it, and all her nerves return as soon as she looks back at it, her face turning a new and brighter red.
Jones
- Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.
From then on, whenever Bette enters Jones’s room, the camera soon turns to meet her.
And as per Jones’s request, Bette edits their clips every night.
“Click.”
In the dim red room, the sound of scissors cuts through a busy silence as Bette trims another frame of film.
Bette
- And … this frame next …
She draws a line on the back of the film with a pencil, then carefully snips it out with scissors.
Setting the film aside, she draws large, bold letters on a piece of paper.
Bette
- “Apple Core.”
Bette had peeled an apple for Jones, only to be ruthlessly teased for her knife skills.
Bette
- “Pharaoh’s Night.”
A horror-style short Jones had asked Bette to shoot, where Jones, wrapped head to toe in bandages, bolted upright in bed—
Only for the shot to reveal Bette’s fake mustache stuck under her nose.
The last clip is of Bette laughing so hard the whole frame trembles, the light shifting wildly, like ink dispersing in a glass of water.
Bette
- This is what movies should be … magical vessels to preserve our best moments forever …
She carefully lifts the film with tweezers, sorting them into separate categories.
Bette
- Jones will recover and be discharged soon.
- I’ll find a way to help her accept what happened with the “Storm.”
Bette’s eyes rest overlong on the script on the nightstand—copied out laboriously by hand and from memory. Having used her legs as a writing desk for so long, the pages have developed a slight curve.
Bette
- Then we’ll finish the movie.
It is late, and the room is dark except for the intermittent flickering of machine lights.
Laura
- Have you decided?
Jones
- Yes.
The insect-like camera base sits motionless, slumped over from lack of instructions.
Jones
- I don’t need money. I just need you to give me one thing.
Laura
- What?
Jones parts her lips, uttering something far from pleasant.
Laura
- Hah! There are better substitutes for that.
Jones
- Suit yourself.
The door shuts behind the nurse as she leaves.
(TO BE CONTINUED …)
Bette
- Jones.
Around the usual time, Bette arrives at Jones’s ward—only to find a neatly wrapped gift box tied with a silk ribbon sitting on her chair.
Bette
- Huh? A present? Who is it from?
She realizes a bit too late she shouldn’t have said it so strangely; the gift is light, almost as if nothing were inside.
Jones
- No, it’s from me to you.
Bette
- What for? Did I forget a special occasion?
Bette looks at Jones in surprise, about to open the box to see what is inside.
Jones
- Don’t open it yet.
Bette
- Hm?
Jones stops her just as her fingers begin to pull on the ribbon and gestures for her to sit down.
Jones
- This was the first gift I ever received—from my mother.
Hearing that, Bette examines the box even more curiously, turning it over in her hands.
Bette
- What’s inside?
Jones
- It’s a beautiful box—so beautiful that I thought it could be worth a lot of money on its own. I spent a long time trying to figure out what could be inside.
- Cotton, stamps, banknotes … even fairy dust.
- I kept asking my mother for hints, but she wouldn’t tell me.
Bette
- Why didn’t you just open it up and see?
Jones
- Because …
Jones lets out a sigh.
Jones
- I was afraid.
- It was my first real Christmas gift. I was terrified that if I opened it, It’d be empty.
- Rather than finding out there was nothing inside, I figured it would be better to leave it as it was—so it could always be a “gift.”
- After all, the joy of receiving a present is the most important part, isn’t it?
- If I opened it, and it was empty, what would I do? It’d be the same either way.
A small wavering doubt stirs inside Bette.
Bette
- Then … what did you end up doing?
Jones
- I placed it on my bedside table and held back the urge to open it—it sat there for ten years, maybe more.
- Then, a director discovered me as I was interviewing to be a waitress and cast me in a film.
- Holding the payment from that movie, I finally had the courage to face the mystery of that box.
- Before opening it, I bought myself an expensive bracelet. If the box was empty, I’d put the bracelet inside and treat it as the first gift I ever gave myself.
Jones lies in the glass chamber, watching Bette.
Bette
- So … was there something inside?
Jones seems to smile, but the movement of the bandages is so slight that Bette wonders if she is only imagining it.
Jones
- It doesn’t matter what is in there. I had already realized by then that I couldn’t live my life waiting for dreams. Whether I became a star or not.
- Ah …
- Before I said anything, how would you have imagined my childhood?
Bette looks at Jones’s bandaged face, trying to imagine what she would have looked like as a child.
But no matter how hard she tries, her mind can only picture something on a black-and-white screen—on it, Jones is sometimes a wealthy heiress, sometimes a poor country girl.
But the real Jones isn’t someone on a silver screen. She is flesh and blood, born into this world just like everyone else.
Bette
- I …
Bette resists her initial thought.
To imagine her as just another girl—even if she knows it’s true—feels wrong; it feels like taking something away from her.
It would mean she wasn’t born to be the star that she became, that she didn’t have any special gift to light up the screen, and that she’s no different from her.
Bette
- Why? Why are you giving this to me? Is there something inside?
Jones shakes her head once more.
Bette
- Hm?
Behind the door, Laura enters, pushing a medical cart.
Laura
- Visiting time is over. Miss Jones needs her treatment, and I’m going to need you to leave.
Jones
- Go on, Bette. I’ll see you later.
Bette
- …
Bette looks down at the box with newfound anxiety.
It is exquisitely wrapped, with a delicate ribbon tied into a bow on top. The knot is neat and smooth, as if no force had been applied to it in the tying.
Laura
- Time to go.
Laura pushes Bette’s shoulder gently, ushering her out of the ward.
Bette examines the box from every angle as she walks toward her room. Her feet shuffling and slow.
She shakes it as she holds her ear against it, but even that reveals nothing.
Bette
- What does it mean? Is it just an empty box, like false hope?
Whispering tendrils seem to seep in from the corridor’s shadows, filling her with a quiet sensation of fear.
Bette
- Maybe Jones figured it out? Could she have seen through the illusion I created for her?
- But …
Bette searches her memory of their last conversation; she had been different, but not in a way that revealed anything.
Bette
- So, why give me this box?
- Should I do the same thing—wait until I have something to give myself before opening it?
People hurry past her, but Bette hasn’t moved in what feels like minutes.
Bette
- I must be different from her. Because even if this box is empty, I don’t think I’d feel disappointed …
- Because …
The thought crosses her mind and is met with a sudden panic that crawls up her spine.
She yanks off the ribbon.
It isn’t empty. A reel of film is bound in the middle to prevent it from making any sound when shaken.
Bette
- What …
The cutting and splicing technique is immediately familiar. This is her film.
Bette
- How …
Bette removes the film.
Bette
- Jones has been in that glass chamber this entire time. So who helped her retrieve the film? Who wrapped it up like this?
A suspicion races up to the front of her mind, one that drives her to turn and then run back toward the ward.
Bette
- Jones!
Laura is injecting some kind of medication into Jones through the glass chamber’s tubes.
Laura
- Oh dear.
Jones
- You opened it.
Bette
- I did. So, you knew? The “Storm” …
Jones
- Yeah.
Bette
- Did she tell you?
Laura
- Don’t glare at me like that. She asked first.
Bette
- But … it doesn’t really matter. The world outside looks just as beautiful as the pictures, and it’s safe …
Bette steps toward Jones’s chamber.
Laura
- I got what I was here for. I’m leaving.
Pushing the syringe empty, Laura packs up her things, grabs the motionless camera from the table by the door, and leaves the room without another word.
Bette isn’t quite sure yet what to make of this scene. But she hasn’t given up.
Bette
- The camera doesn’t matter. I can buy another one. I’ve already rewritten the script.
- Once you get better, even without the director and crew, we can still finish things.
Bette approaches Jones, looking up at her in the chamber, which now seems more like a glass coffin, as if pleading for a princess to awaken.
Jones
- You will finish it. I’m sure of that.
- This movie is yours now. I want you to complete it; that’s why I wanted you to have the film.
Bette
- But what about you …
Jones
- My days on the silver screen are over, Bette. Just look at me; I’m not star material anymore.
- I’m going to be stuck here in this thing for … the rest of my life.
Jones says it all as if it were just lines in a script—a first read-through. No emotions needed.
Bette
- No. That’s not true!
Bette’s voice trembles.
Bette
- They said your recovery is going well. That you’ll be able to get out of this bed soon.
- And didn’t you see your face that night? We … that night …
Jones
- I have a mole; I always had it covered up on set. But you would have seen it … if it were still there. The rest was perfect—right down to the eyebrows.
Bette
- …
She had tried so hard to recreate her face. But Jones is right; she never saw the mole. Her scars had covered up all of it.
Bette
- So … you already knew …
Jones
- Do you remember me saying that you remind me of someone?
Jones’s eyes have begun to flutter, looking more and more heavy.
Jones
- You remind me of … well, me.
- Always waiting for someone else to give you what you need. Not realizing that you … had the power to get it for yourself.
- I saw your dream as you see it, on that silver rectangle, and it’s going to be beautiful. But I won’t be your star.
- You look wonderful on camera, and you look best when you’re wearing your own face.
- Now it’s your role. Your movie … Finish it …
Her voice fades out, as if being pulled into a heavy slumber.
Bette
- Jones? What’s going on? What’s happening to you?
Bette turns in horror to realize the liquid that the nurse injected has already drained completely into Jones’s body.
She pounds on the glass, trying to grab Jones’s attention. But her friend is slipping away from her, like an anchor falling into unseen depths.
Bette
- Jones!
Jones
- I asked for this … Bette.
The voice is a clear and crisp whisper.
Jones
- A sweet and eternal dream.
I hate this place.
You haven’t got my eyebrows right at all!
Now it’s your role. Your movie … Finish it …
A sweet and eternal dream.
THE END
(TO BE CONTINUED …)
Jones was buried outside the Foundation, lying alone in another era, destined to disappear with the passage of time.
Since then, Bette has spent many days alone. Though, at least now, having joined the Foundation, she has endless tasks to distract her.
But in her free moments, Bette still finds herself standing in that hallway, looking out the same window where she first glimpsed the new era.
Foundation Staff Member I
- Bette?
Bette
- Hmm? What is it, Megan?
The two colleagues stand together while observing the changing times.
Foundation Staff Member I
- What were you filming?
Megan eyes the new camera in Bette’s hands, something she bought with her newfound salary.
Bette
- Nothing … just carrying it around …
How long has she been trying to use up that roll of film? She could never find the right moment to open the lens.
Bette
- I don’t think inventorying a warehouse would count as riveting cinema.
Foundation Staff Member I
- If your daily work is just repetitive mechanical tasks, then yeah, it’s not much fun.
Megan leans back against the railing and looks up idly at the ceiling.
Their moment of peace is shattered by a ripple of conversation that surges through the hallway like a wave.
Hurried Woman
- Countdown to the “Storm”! Countdown to the “Storm”!
Foundation Staff Member I
- Oh?
Megan straightens up and pats Bette.
Foundation Staff Member I
- We’ve got work to do.
Bette
- What do you mean?
Foundation Staff Member I
- A “Storm” countdown means that in 24 hours, a “Storm” event will occur.
- You should get back too. Things are going to be rough.
Megan hurriedly heads back to her station.
Bette
- …
- So this new era is going to be archived like before?
Bette
- Inventorying era relics … Checking historical records …
Accepting her pre-”Storm” preparation tasks in a daze, Bette sits in the cluttered storage room, verifying numbers and items.
Bette
- A Turkish kebab machine that uses light bulbs to cook meat …
Bette checks a box on the form.
Bette
- A super mini TV … What are they even inventing?
The work is tedious and dull, but somehow Bette’s hand cannot help but shake. The “Storm” countdown has brought with it a grip on her heart.
Because far beyond the walls of the Foundation, another upheaval is coming—nothing will remain the same—not even Jones’s grave.
Bette
- Next …
- Bubble oxygen machine. Ha, guess it’s the arcanists’ turn now.
- Crunchy fortune cookie shoes … I feel like this is wasting food.
She mumbles to herself as she continues the inventory, moving on to another shelf, trying to keep her mind steady.
Bette
- Dance of the Moonlit Night … Premiered on February 23rd …
- Hm?
She glances up and takes a shocked step back. The shelf is filled with reels of film.
She has been avoiding this shelf since she started working here—avoiding Jones’s death.
Bette
- 1940 … 1939 …
- So that means … could it be …
She found herself pulled to the section holding films from the 1930s. The reels were neatly arranged.
Bette
- Ones I worked as a stunt double for … ones Jones starred in …
She scans over the meticulously organized reels, the thought building like a flood behind a dam.
Bette
- But Jones will disappear soon. Like a fossil, buried under the layers of time beyond my reach.
“You look wonderful on camera, and you look best when you’re wearing your own face.”
Bette
- Jones …
She didn’t star in her film. She didn’t touch the film at all. When she buried Jones, she had buried that part of her in the same grave.
Bette
- What should I film?
- “Yes!”
- “No!”
- “Ah—”
- …
Memories flash through her mind. Bette eventually finds her answer.
Bette
- Jones, I won’t leave you alone. Not in these last moments.
Bette
- Where is that script?
She rummages through her room like a bear in search of honey, scattering items all over the floor.
Bette
- Where is it?!
After several more agonizing minutes, she finds her handwritten script wedged in the gap between her bed and the wall.
Bette
- I know what will do.
She flips directly to the page she’s after. Even during Jones’s bedridden final days, she never stopped reading it; the page had visible creases from overuse.
Bette sets up the camera, checks the film and lighting, then steps in front of the lens.
Yes!
No!
Ah—
For the first time, she isn’t just rehearsing. The lines are captured; they’re real.
Just as they were written in the script, then Bette collapses back onto the bed.
Just three simple lines, no real acting required—a minor role in a film that would never be screened.
Bette rolls off the bed, turns off the camera, then takes the reel of film and rushes out the door.
The cemetery is empty. Those who rest here no longer need to care what is about to happen to the world.
Bette holds a delicate box with a clumsy ribbon tied in a lopsided bow.
Bette
- This is for you, Jones.
She places the box on the tombstone, and then, after a time, she shakes her head and opens it.
Bette
- It’s our film. I finished it.
- But that isn’t all.
She pulls a blank film strip from her pocket, encased in a transparent glass frame. It is bleached in the sunlight, rendering it totally unusable.
Bette
- I kept some for myself because I still don’t know what I should be filming.
- If we meet again, I’ll bring it to show you.
- But for now …
The cold gravestone offers no response. It lies unspeaking, unknowingly awaiting the impending “Storm.”
Bette
- I finally understand now—the world won’t wait for me to say “I’m ready” before it begins.
- So I can’t stay in the past. I’ll move forward, because that’s the only choice.
The “Storm” countdown alarm echoes in the air as Bette gently wipes the tombstone.
Bette
- We’ll meet again.
She holds her stare at the engraved letters, the carved marks flowing like rippling waves, tracing the life of Jones like a river.
Bette
- And when I see you …
Bette shakes the film strip in her hand.
Bette
- I promise—it will be spectacular.
The last film of the 1930s.
(THE END)