She’s just crying. Helplessly, hopelessly; tears sliding without pause down the skin. They make little sounds when they fall, on hair, on cloth, on wood.

Something is /wrong/, something is broken. She doesn’t even know what it is. It’s not physical, but it might as well be, for how much pain there is. How does one person even contain that much pain?

They don’t, she doesn’t, so she cries. Silently, brokenly. It’s worse for that she doesn’t even know /why/.

She could be alone, or not. She’s too tangled in the ache to know, too caught up inside her own mind, reaching out, yearning for other knowledge. To help, to heal, to find the person whose pain this is and make it right.

Who helps those who help others? She’s lost, crying. Emptily, achingly. The sort of tears that do nothing but draw others after, and bring no relief.

There is no relief. Not for her.

Not ever.

No one will come. She is always, only, ever, alone.