He wakes to the scratching of a pencil against a page: a noise out of the darkness.
The writing is her way out of this room, this cell of solitude, darkness, and despair. Her mind is free to roam where it will. She dares to take up her humiliations and heartaches and to give them a structure.
She feels that if she left her father now he might disappear, as though it is her dim sight that holds him hovering in half life, as though she has invented him and not he her.
She practices loneliness like a sport.
Now she feels her spirit shake its half-fettered wings free.
She remembers catching a glimpse of a face in the mirror and wondering who it was.