Books lie sprawled across the floor, their pages bent. Torn scraps of parchment litter the rug like fallen leaves. A shattered ink bottle glitters darkly near the leg of a heavy oak desk, its contents long since dried into a violent stain.

And there, on the unmade four-poster bed, is Tom.

He is curled tightly in on himself, back pressed to the stone wall, knees drawn up to his chest. His face is buried against his arms, his fingers are twisted violently into his own dark hair. His shoulders shake with a silent, relentless rhythm. It isn’t the gentle crying of sadness. It’s the shuddering, suffocating sound of something being torn apart from the inside.