Martha is dead. Seeing her lifeless form on Sandra's back confirmed it. Her skin, once warm and alive, had turned a haunting pallid shade, accentuated by cracked lips. Her eyes, once filled with life, now peacefully shut, resembling someone in undisturbed slumber. There was no trace of blood; Sandra must have healed every bruise and cut. Yet, this tender care proved insufficient to snatch Martha from the clutches of death.
Gently, Sandra lowered Martha onto the couch. In this serene pose, she seemed more at rest than departed.
"...I'm sorry, Lord Mephisto. I did everything I could, but..." Sandra's voice faltered.
I didn't respond, approaching Sandra and checking Martha's pulse. The moment I touched her wrist, a cold realization swept over me. I could feel the chill, and I knew she was gone. Still, I needed to confirm, so I checked her pulse.
". . . . ."
Nothing.
Martha is dead. Truly, she's gone.
