The rain keeps falling, beating against the window, a thick white mist rising in the air.
The wind has picked up, fog has descended.
The sky hasn't yet brightened, the surroundings remain cloaked in darkness, not a finger can be seen.
Jasmine Yale cries intermittently under the covers, gasping for breath, until eventually, she can cry no more, speak no more, she simply lays silently in the thick blankets.
By the pillow, it seems, Sylvan Cheney's scent still lingers, that faint agarwood fragrance.
The room is enveloped in darkness, she closes her eyes, convulsing with sobs.
Longing is like a kite flying towards the sky, without wind, it fails to rise high, never reaching the distant place it wishes to arrive.
In Jasmine Yale's mind, there are threads upon threads tangled together, impossible to unravel.
By eight in the morning, Butler Santana calls Jasmine Yale to wake up.
Jasmine Yale responds gloomily, "I want to sleep in."
