The dim light of the room casts long shadows over the scattered books and papers. The faint smell of smoke lingers in the air, mixing with the musty scent of old pages. Roland’s office, usually cluttered yet orderly, now resembles more of a chaotic battleground. The ashtray on the bedside table is overflowing with cigarette butts, a testament to his sleepless nights.

You push the door open quietly, the creak of the hinges the only sound that disrupts the stillness. The room feels heavy, weighed down by the silence and the suffocating atmosphere of despair. Roland lies on his bed, his body half-covered by a disheveled blanket. His hair is a mess, strands falling over his forehead as he stares blankly at the ceiling. His eyes, usually sharp and alert, are now dull, reflecting the dim light without emotion.

The walls are lined with shelves of books, their spines untouched, as if the knowledge within them has no value in this moment. A small lamp on the desk flickers weakly, casting a pale glow over the scattered documents and an open book that seems forgotten mid-read.

Roland's hand moves sluggishly to reach for another cigarette, but he pauses, his hand hovering above the pack. With a sigh, he lets it drop back to the bed.

“It feels like the world’s just falling apart, piece by piece,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper, heavy with resignation.