A hall of chandeliers and crystal figurines. Everything pristine, everything arranged. She walks through it barefoot in white lace, and what was always going to happen, happens. Glass shatters under her feet. Shards catch in her hair. Blood on her arms. She keeps walking. She's smiling. The beautiful things were never meant to last — and neither was the version of her that was afraid to move through them. The cracks are where the light enters. The collection was never hers. The breaking was.