Perhaps... the child. We startled him.

( Frightened him, to his withered, collapsed core. And how did he seem, glass-eyed, lost in the rain, a diffused silhouette? Dust mote in their greedy hands, another trinket they've failed to salvage.

He starts, gingerly, to raise himself. To commune with a reality where he is a sum of parts that remember themselves, the shape they combine to. To walk and steady himself. )

If this world lives of his control, its fissures unearthed the reality beneath.