look at this totograph

Spectral light fades and the show's over, curtains drawn. Dusk sneaks in through the broken windows, filtering the wreckage in hazy, antiquated light. A marker of time passing on this endless day. Somewhere, there is a sun burning through the hours, skating across the sky. It seems as much a myth as ghosts and hauntings and houses that swallow you whole, but Adrien's judgment of reality is always worse in here. Ceilings so high they seem endless. Rooms so cold they freeze time. When he turns away from his mother's portrait, the atelier is deafeningly empty. It's hollowed out, more than usual.

The room is a shattered ribcage. Desks are splintered to bits. Couches gutted, stuffing spilling out. Mannequins lie contorted, faceless casualties of the battle Adrien never fought. The only wars he ever saw in this room were waged with icy stares and pursed lips. Volleys for connection shattered against an impenetrable wall of apathy. There is something—a dog or a child or a ghost, something—living just within Adrien's skin. There is some undergrown thing in him that shrinks and whines in this room.

It's the same part of him that wants. The part that doesn't let go. The part that playacts a goodbye hug with a memory. Get up, he wants to scold himself. This is it. There is no one coming to save you.

The room is a mess. The room belongs to Adrien. Or Adrien belongs to the room. Either way, it's his to deal with. There is no one coming.

Adrien gets to work.

Spectral light fades and the show's over, curtains drawn. Dusk sneaks in through the broken windows, filtering the wreckage in hazy, antiquated light. A marker of time passing on this endless day. Somewhere, there is a sun burning through the hours, skating across the sky. It seems as much a myth as ghosts and hauntings and houses that swallow you whole, but Adrien's judgment of reality is always worse in here. Ceilings so high they seem endless. Rooms so cold they freeze time. When he turns away from his mother's portrait, the atelier is deafeningly empty. It's hollowed out, more than usual.

The room is a shattered ribcage. Desks are splintered to bits. Couches gutted, stuffing spilling out. Mannequins lie contorted, faceless casualties of the battle Adrien never fought. The only wars he ever saw in this room were waged with icy stares and pursed lips. Volleys for connection shattered against an impenetrable wall of apathy. There is something—a dog or a child or a ghost, something—living just within Adrien's skin. There is some undergrown thing in him that shrinks and whines in this room.

It's the same part of him that wants. The part that doesn't let go. The part that playacts a goodbye hug with a memory. Get up, he wants to scold himself. This is it. There is no one coming to save you.

The room is a mess. The room belongs to Adrien. Or Adrien belongs to the room. Either way, it's his to deal with. There is no one coming.

Adrien gets to work.