Leonardo stood up slowly, feeling the pull of exhaustion in every muscle as the long, damp white sleeve finally broke off, its fabric sagging limply in his grasp. He stared at the cracked mirror in front of him, its jagged lines reflecting a distorted image of himself back.
The mirror was a mess, much like his mind, fractured and sharp-edged. "I just lied, but it was to save my life," he muttered under his breath, the words a feeble attempt to justify his actions.
He began picking up the scattered items that had fallen from the mirror during the tense "conversation" with Adalaide—pills, rolls worth, parchment, unfamiliar names scrawled on all most object, scraps of paper, and the church title still visible unimportant now, just remnants.
He moved to gather the toiletries, some scattered across the sink, collecting them slowly as if savoring each second of relative calm.
