His stubbled face came into my workshop saner than most. My workshop, more often than not, was a desperate last attempt for the worst of the worst to seize their final, few wisping strands of hope. I wish I could say his tear-jerking story got to me; that it inspired some lost ashes to ember again within my, at the time, cinder-specked-soul. But it just wasn’t the case. His wife’s tragic passing (who was apparently a redhead with ‘rosebud’ hair), his being framed for a heinous crime (of which he assured me he was innocent), and his innocent daughter – who believed him guilty of that horrible act – were all relatively light stories compared to the rest of the Ergonplex.