1895. The same year Sybil had been born. He had died only two years earlier than her—most likely to illness or because or having been the causality of war. The thought was overwhelming her as she felt a tugging on her skirt.

Her dreams were almost as haunting as her reality was. As she watched the early morning filter through the curtains, she didn't dare move, just in case she was still dreaming. If she wasn't, her reality had just become a nightmare anyway, and she had been half expecting it to get worse some time during the night.