And three days later, I find myself hands and knees against the icy ground. And I can feel the snow landing softly on my back, melting, and falling bright red onto the ground.

Or am I still in my room? I cannot tell. If I concentrate, I can make out the floor's hardwood pattern -- I do not know which is real -- I do not remember either one.

I think I was with her, just this moment -- or I was thinking of her. I was in the street, in an alleyway. I was saying something silly, like 'I still have your clothes and weapon.'

"I do not need them, dear, I am dead," she laughed. Then she held my face in her large hands. With tears in her eyes, she said, "But I forgive you."

... and her hands and lips became ice cold. Became the snow -- the cold blood-soaked snow.

...and I am so sorry.