In time, though, Ophelia will begin to hear the steady, rhythmic thunk of wood being split, and dry logs clattering against one another. Laertes is out preparing firewood for the winter, sweat soaking his collar and underarms; he's lost in the work of woodcutting, his world narrowed to the axe and the log and the growing pile of split pieces against the side of the house.

He pauses for a breath, wipes his brow, and takes a long drink of water. His gaze drifts, as it always does, to the edge of the forest.

--and his glass shatters on the ground as he runs to sweep up his sister in his arms. "Ophelia!"