Ingrid lay on her side in her bed, her gaze fixed on the soft glow emanating from the lamp beside her. The room was cast in a gentle ambiance, accentuating the delicate silk of her nightgown and the silver cascade of her hair.
"Was it really a prophecy, or merely a nightmare?" she murmured to herself, the weight of the recent events lingering in her thoughts.
After the emotional outpouring with Christine, questions swirled in Ingrid's mind like a tempest. Before she knew it, it was already nighttime.
The room was filled with a heavy silence, broken only by the subtle sound of her own breaths.
Suddenly, her contemplation was interrupted by a delicate sound—a fluttering of feathers.
Ingrid slowly sat up, her gaze shifting to the foot-tall wooden figurine of a dancing lady on a nearby table. There, perched gracefully atop the figurine, was the pigeon from that afternoon. Its dark, beady eyes fixed on Ingrid as if carrying a message of its own.
