He's splintering. The fabric that makes up the cheerful watchmaker rips and crumbles, splashed with so many discolorations that even the most talented seamstress wouldn't be able to fix it. To the outside world, the man appears to be whole—more than whole—he's never really been average, no matter how hard he tries to be. It's either one thing or the other with him.

No matter how hard he tries to appear as if he were one of the many, many, people in the world, he's either the lowest of the low, or part of the sect that only those privileged few can even dream of touching.

Lacie…

She's right there.

Disconnected with from his body, Jack does nothing but watch and feel as if he's stretched too thin, as if the crazy speed of the rotation of time is going to pull apart his entire soul, molecule by molecule. His frame remains rigid—cruelly rigid, ignoring the blows that come directly from within.

Jack can't be completely human, or else he'd have become entirely misshapen. It can't be possible that the storm that's his memories isn't tangible, that the chains of melody binding his limbs aren't leaving a mark.

He's splintering, and he continues to fall apart as he watches a stranger that has a long, golden braid, bright emerald eyes, and a grass-stained hose stare, mesmerized, as Lacie sings. Her arms are extended, and her hair is in wild tangles. Oswald is there, too. He has a small smile on his face, and it's evident that the man's doing his best to slow down time, so the three of them could stay in that meadow in the woods, away from the jumbled politics of the Baskervilles. A small, white hand flutters up to her chest as she reaches for a high note, effortlessly weaving it into the air around them.

Lacie's eyes are closed. Oswald is nearly asleep. The stranger, the one with the long braid, always alert, watches.

Jack is splintering. He's contorted in an angle that ruptures the smooth surface of his wooden mask, and he's chipped, oh so broken, so obviously broken. It's just that no one sees it. But he'll never be fully convinced that his violent thoughts are visible only to him.

Lacie's eyes are open. The stranger, gloves discarded, fills his hands with wildflower after wildflower, staining his tapering fingers with pollen. Leaves dance in mid air, almost as if they are suspended by the lingering voice that circles around the world of the meadow. Oswald's fully asleep, calm, for once. His brow is smooth, and the stranger with Jack's eyes, hair, and everything else that makes him Jack can't help but think his friend looks like a child.

Lacie ends her song. Oswald doesn't stir. In his arms, Jack feels the crumbs of what once was a stuffed rabbit. It's pure conceit, but he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he's transferred the pressure that was unwinding him to the toy. The portrait of he—Jack, the stranger—Lacie, and Oswald fades, and along with it goes the remains of Alice's Oz.

Jack is splintering.

And the tears fall.