I can feel everything he has felt, these past three years. I let it move through me, taste his sorrow and anger and fear. I hold his little joys in my mouth, let them pass through my fingers. It is time that was lost to me, and now I have it.

Passing beyond that, I go into his darker places, where I can still smell jungle. Threaded through them, the greasepaint and sawdust of the carnival. Here, yes. Here he made a promise. The knot is very tight and elegant, and as I start to unpick it, it reknots, tighter and more elegant than before. It is fine and beautiful work.

I have a gift for destroying beautiful things.

It hurts him, of course. But soon he will be free.