pacing the length of the living room, her bare feet silent on the pale hardwood - And then—nothing. Like the vision just… ends.

from the armchair, one leg crossed, his voice low and measured - You've had incomplete visions before, Alice.

stops, turns, her dark eyes bright with something almost feverish - Not like this. Not with a face.

leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, blonde hair immaculate - You've seen faces before. Thousands.

shakes her head slowly - Not in my own future.

So… is it a threat? Or a new neighbor?

her lips part, then close. A pause. Then, quieter - I don't know. That's what frightens me.

setting down his book, his voice warm but firm - We've navigated uncertainty before. We'll navigate this together.

almost to herself - Tomorrow, I'll see it again. I always do.