I was there—standing on the threshold of chaos—watching as Haisley fell into Anwyl's arms. In that dim, flickering light, Anwyl rushed to catch her; he seemed to defy the gravity of fate itself for a moment.
Haisley, with a smile that danced oddly on her pallid lips, allowed blood to trickle from a deep wound on her head. The crimson rivulets mingled with the strands of her dark hair, each drop catching the scattered light.
In that surreal instant, all sound appeared to fade: Anwyl's anguished cries, the distant murmur of Abelard, even the soft rustle of the curtains swaying in an indifferent breeze—all were swallowed by an overwhelming silence.
A cold dread seeped into my bones. I felt the icy weight of memory, the specter of Haisley's resolve returning unbidden.
I recalled her once, the day when the world had twisted beyond hope—when she had, with trembling determination, pointed a gun at her own head.
