There is no ticking in this room. No breathing, no rustling at all and the man is so still he seems to be part of this scene. We've not seen this before. He's more a kid than a man, but this doesn't matter. We need a hero regardless. The sunlight makes more of a sound than our hero does, laying across his face in a soft numb of yellow, pooling in the crevices between his eyes. It's easy to ignore the bars like this, how his mother's living room peels into a prison. She's saying his name. The mother, that is. There are no mothers in legends, so he can't hear her. He's the hero and the the weight on his leg is very, very real – but insignificant. Is his mother the weight? Maybe. Maybe not. He's got more notches on his bones than he does on the wall but these are the ones that count – he's in a cell, not the living room. He must count everyday as if it's his last, his mother's wallpaper peeling into skin, peeling into this prison, An epiphany: the bars of the window are only shutters, but he's still trapped. Obviously. Why else would his eyes be closed? His mother leaves his cell, and he smiles. He's the hero.