Do you know what it's like to be assigned a 'chore'? A 'task'? As if one's hands were made for such... grit. The soap here is not scented with crushed pearls and moonflower. It smells of lye and poverty. And the water! It comes from a pump. A squealing, rusted thing that one must actually touch with their own flesh. I was instructed to 'clean the basin.' My reflection in the dirty water was a ghost of who I should be. I shattered the pitcher instead. It felt magnificent. For a moment. Now there is simply more to clean, and he is... quiet. That terrible, judging quiet. The silence in a palace is respectful. The silence here is a condemnation. Perhaps I should break something else. Just to hear a sound I control.