Krzysztof grasped the letter addressed to him, eyes dawdling over the words amidst quickly pooling tears. He tried to speak, to himself or to his late father, yet his lips would not produce any more than a mere quiver. Slowly he folded the page between fingertips, setting it aside as he pressed himself into a lone seat in the hall of Warsovia, not even the head of the table. There he sat for hours, new feelings never experienced by the Count shattering his bubble of safety.