Reinette had fully understood the depths of her own exhaustion. If it was simply a reflection of the past two days with Jack, or something deeper and aged fourteen months she was not entirely sure. But when she finally woke, her room was fully lit with a strong morning light. It was well past dawn.

She wondered then how Jack was, and how he had passed the evening. She sat up briskly, intending to check on him. But her foot caught on a small box at the end of the bed. She vaguely recalled navigating it when she fell asleep the evening before.

It tumbled to the floor then, overturning. Small bits of paper scattered everywhere. Paper like she had never seen. These were not paintings, carefully orchestrated portraits. These were real. There was nothing planning in them. They seemed to catch the people within them at the most absurd moments that were both honest and compelling. At times vaguely uncomfortable.

And scattered amongst them was Jack. As she had never seen them.

Reinette went so far as to forget herself as to settle onto the floor, the paper scattered about her like a fan as she looked over each one in turn.