Ominis runs his hand over the thick, glossy envelope, feeling his heart pound. It’s a letter from his parents. He hasn’t spoken to them in two years; refusing to play their games and trifle in the Dark Arts. His blindness has always been made fun of by them, scorned and hurt, called all sorts of names, even tortured. He’s afraid now, of what the letter contains.

As you see him, you see he looks out of sorts, and you try to see what the matter is.