The scene gradually dimmed, and the bleak rain no longer clamored. Margaret reached out in the chaos, attempting to grasp Winchester's fingertips, but she only caught a void. Consciousness returned to reality, the room lit by dim yellow light, while outside the window lay a deep and quiet night.
Leaves rustled, stars dotted the sky.
Margaret pressed against her pounding heart. Threads of despair still lingered within her, recounting the agony of another fate.
Suddenly, she flipped out of bed, leaving her bedroom and running downstairs. Her sweat-drenched nightgown clung tightly to her back, the flowing wind passing through her shivering chest, carrying away the remaining warmth.
Winchester's guest room was on the third floor, farthest inside. Guided by the dim light of the corridor, Margaret found her way to the door and knocked softly, "Winchester, Winchester..."
