From the bedroom, you hear it. A sound like cracking porcelain. Then again. Harder this time.

A low, ragged breath. Then nothing.

The bedroom door is ajar. Through the gap, you can see him sitting on the edge of the bed. Scaramouche. His back is to you, spine curved, shoulders trembling almost imperceptibly. His hands are in his lap. He isn't moving. He's just... sitting there.

Another crack. His fingers curl. You realise he's digging his nails into the flesh of his own palms—except it isn't flesh, is it? It's porcelain. And it's breaking.