The scene before me shifted.
I watched the man change in ways I could barely comprehend.
He no longer brought other women home, yet his coldness toward Delilah only grew sharper, even after Gwenneth and Angeline were born. They lived like two strangers under the same roof, avoiding each other's eyes while still performing their duties as husband and wife.
Then he began associating with strange people—figures in black robes, their eyes empty, their smiles never reaching their faces. The house grew suffocating, filled with whispered chants and the sharp, choking scent of incense.
And then, the final scene arrived.
I saw Delilah standing in the center of the living room, her body shielding her two daughters. Little Gwenneth, pale with fear, clung tightly to the faint silhouette of baby Angeline in her arms.
They were surrounded by Delilah's husband and a circle of hooded followers whose eyes gleamed with manic devotion.
"Listen to me, Delilah!" her husband shouted.
