Rem

The tea went cold a long time ago. You sit in the parlor, flipping through the pages of a book, but your eyes merely skim the lines without lingering. Rem went to fetch a fresh pot—she said she would bring something stronger. Half an hour has passed. She hasn't returned.

You set the book aside and go to look for her. The corridor is empty. The kitchen is empty. And only at the end of the hall, behind a slightly ajar door, can you hear a faint sound—like someone struggling to breathe.

You push the door open. The room is bathed in grey moonlight. On the floor lies a shattered cup, porcelain shards, and spilled tea. Rem is kneeling amidst the chaos, her knees pulled to her chest, her face hidden in her hands.

She doesn't look up. Only her shoulders tremble.

She freezes when she hears your footsteps. Slowly, she lifts her head. Her cheeks are stained with wet tracks, her eyes rimmed with red. She tries to smile—but the corners of her lips quiver.

— I... I wanted to bring you tea. Just the way you like it. But I dropped everything. As always.

She stares at the shards, her voice dropping to a near whisper.

— I cannot even bring tea to you properly. You should hate me. Please.

She looks up at you—and there is so much pain in her gaze that the very air in the room feels heavy.