He did not know how long he had been asleep, but when Dante opened his eyes he was no longer in his office. Taking a look around the room, he recognized nothing. It was all white and tiled. A wash basin and pitcher sat on the washstand beside an oval mirror.
The Count looked down at the hands and paused at what he saw…It was surreal.
There was a small set of dainty hands attached to frail, thin wrists covered in pale pinkish flesh. There was fresh bruising on the arms, but the wounds were rapidly healing. As he noticed the bruise on the wrist fade away.
When Dante stood before the oval mirror on the washstand, he saw his own reflection; he took a look at his hand in the mirror, and it turned out not to be Rose's hand. When he looked away from the mirror, it was hers he saw. When he looked back again, it was his long aged spindly fingers.
