Chapter Text
What the hell just happened?
Winry tried to make sense of the situation, but her mind was currently on overdrive, too busy trying to catch up with the rapid turn of events to make sense of anything. Not one minute ago, she had been peacefully crossing down the street contemplating whether she’d get cheese or meat bread for lunch. So why the hell was she smashed on hard concrete with her head wedged under sweltering metal?
She tried to move, to scream for help, but the pressure on her back was crushing her, flattening her to solid ground. With her nose smashed against asphalt and her teeth scraping the coarse mineral, it took every effort just to wheeze some air in, and whatever she managed to shallowly gulp reeked of harsh engine fumes and sharp metallic… blood?
Stunned blue eyes stared in horror at the rapidly growing red pool beneath her head. She wanted to reach and probe for the wound site, but her arms were completely paralyzed under a vehicle’s low bumper.
Shit.
She’d been in an accident.
She briefly remembered the loud blare of a moving truck before it rammed into her unsuspecting form, skidding her on the road with the forced impact, and the raw, grainy texture scraping her skin and tearing it apart.
Shit, shit, shit.
Was she… dying?
Almost as if on cue, the pressure on her body was momentarily alleviated, and frantic arms of good Samaritans shot out to grasp onto anything they could latch onto – her limbs, her cloths, her hair – and they pulled. A scream was caught in her throat as her skin tore and her wounds stretched, choked garbles came out in a keening whine in a voice she could barely recognize.
The loud ringing in her head faded enough for her to make out the clamor of a growing crowd. She must’ve been such a sight for people to look that horror-stricken. Heck, many even had their eyes averted.
Was it really that bad? She couldn’t tell. Not with the adrenaline still pumping wildly in her blood.
Fuck, it burns.
Her vision was darkened, but the sun was blinding. The usually uncomfortable summer ray was now a scorching beam that scalded her open wounds. She almost wished she was back under the shade of the truck, just to get some semblance of relief.
Someone draped a towel to shield her from the glaring sun, and maybe to hide her possibly disfigured body from snooping eyes. With strenuous effort, her head lolled to the side to take a better look at the kind stranger. Even though the ringing had faded, she couldn’t make out sounds for some reason. It almost felt like her head was submerged underwater. The man moved his lips, repeating the same words over and over like a mantra. Winry squinted at his mouth, trying to gauge what he was desperately trying to say.
She almost scoffed once she figured it out.
“You’re gonna be okay.”
Yeah, right, mister.
She wasn’t the daughter of two renowned doctors for nothing. Having grown up reading advanced anatomy books just for fun and assisting her grandma with countless surgeries in her free time kind of gave her the right to have an input on her current condition. But, even without a medical background, anybody down the street could tell that she can’t survive with her fatal injuries. Not without a miracle, at least.
Still, she latched onto his words. It was nice to hope. Her lips moved but no sound came out.
It was always nice to have hope.
Her surroundings faded gradually, and eventually, her vision finally gave out.
Hope was the only thing that kept her going this far after all.
For what felt like an eternity, she was drifting in a black ocean.
She was sitting alone on a boat, or, she thought she was alone, but the oars couldn’t possibly row themselves, could they? She stared mutely at the repetitive motion of wood as it splashed gently against still water. A colossal white moon loomed overhead in the pitch-black darkness.
Peace trickled in bits and pieces. With no identity came no responsibility, and she’s been working so hard and for so long, hasn’t she? At least, she feels like she has. Not that she would know. She was just a nameless being floating aimlessly, with no name and no past, and certainly no future.
Her head kept nodding but she fought off sleep, wanting to enjoy the strange serenity a bit longer.
Peering over the rim of the boat, she let a hand trail the water surface in a lazy stroke, watching in fascination as ripples of luminous waves began to shine. Hazy eyes blinked as the curious light faded. Each time she touched the surface, people and places shone deep beneath the body of water.
Pushing herself closer, she peered to observe the intriguing phenomena more clearly. It didn’t strike her as odd that she was on a boat that was clearly being rowed by no one, yet somehow, she found it strange that the water would shine.
The previously smooth boat suddenly rocked, the oaks groaning with each row, almost as if protesting her hands wandering beyond its vicinity. She glanced warily at it but didn’t let it deter her from reaching for the water once more. Her curiosity was piqued.
Her hands swiped at the surface, but no matter how much she splashed it, the fuzzy visions kept fading out. After a split-second hesitancy, she shoved her hand in and let it soak, and she stared, transfixed, as the visions played with no interruptions. A vexed frown etched her features at the wobbly and distant scenes. It felt as though she was trying to look through murky glass.
Giving the boat another wary look, she steeled herself to dive in the water, just to get a closer look at the mesmerizing scenes. She was helplessly allured by the endless pasture of greens and the clear blue skies, they were so very different from the dull scenery she’s been in.
Taking a deep breath, she jumped head-first in the black ocean… and drowned.
She was no longer trying to get a front-row seat so much as she was living the visions.
Feeling like a blank canvas greedily soaking any surrounding color, she let it take its natural course.
She saw a young couple, blond-haired and blue-eyed, swamping her in warm embraces. There was no doubt about it; she was the safest in their arms.
She saw God in the form of a diminutive old woman, bending over a simple workbench as she brought limbs to existence from scraps of metals and bolts. That very same woman held her up repeatedly and without fail whenever she was about to crumble. She guided her, taught her how to channel her passion and misery into metal limbs that could serve.
She saw home in the form of a yellow house in a green field. A little puppy running wild in its space, growing older with her.
Ah.
She was swimming in her own memories.
With the abrupt realization, her throat constricted at what’s to come.
She saw her parents leaving to fight a war that wasn’t their own and coming home in caskets. She saw her usually strong-willed grandmother looking brittle and weak, but still standing strong with stiff lips and blazing eyes.
Every heart ache, every pain and every disappointment seeped into every pore and she felt it.
Her own resolve to be the best in her field, the very best, just to slightly ease the journey of long-gone loved ones. Only fueled by the thought that one day, someday, they would come back home to her. She waited and hoped, with all her being, that it would come true.
A lone tear dropped in the vast ocean.
She’s Winry Rockbell, and she… has died.
Her heart clenched and her lips quivered, but she still wanted to learn more. Especially about the white light that was the furthest from her reach, carefully tucked away in a compressed halo.
Just as she made a move toward it, the tide started to pick pace. At first, it was nothing more than a gentle pull, but each wave came back stronger, bigger, and soon she was fighting to keep her balance as she was jostled around roughly. Splashes of water stung her eyes, forcing her to shut them tightly, but as she opened them again, the moon above had turned a menacing blood-red.
She angered them!
She doesn’t know who, but she knew they didn’t appreciate her little rendezvous off-course.
Black tendrils shot out from above, wrapping and slithering around her limbs before dragging her toward the boat. Stifling a blood-curdling shriek, she tried to swat at them to no avail; they were slippery, fully coated in—she realized in disgust— the thick consistency that the water had changed into.
Unable to help herself, she heaved and gasped against the viscous water. More tendrils reached for her head and pulled her upwards. She didn’t cease her resistance. She may be dead and was fighting a losing battle, but like hell she would go without putting up a good one.
If not for the water saturating her lungs, she would’ve yelled out the vilest profanities at the wandering hands. More were grasping her, and with rising terror, she realized that each time she resisted, her body was being molded, bones cracked and rearranged so that it would cease its struggle. She felt no pain, but the mere thought that she was bending like butter was enough to send her stomach hurling and her limbs to flail harder.
She whirled desperately toward the shining light. Unknown names on the tip of her tongue, begging to be called.
A sob caught in her chest. She was always looking for them. Even in her last moments, she was still looking for them.
But they were never there.
I just wanted to walk beside you. She wanted to scream at the backs of two blond little boys. They were walking ahead of her, whispering dark secrets that threatened to permanently take them away. I just wanted to keep you safe.
And oh, she tried. Nobody can deny that she gave it her all. Even when everything had spiraled out of control, when she herself was still battling the throes of grief, she spilled blood and tears to give them what they needed. She tried to give them the home they deserved, because even when it wasn’t reciprocated, they still were part of her home.
But it wasn’t enough. Nothing she ever did was enough. They ended up going to a place she could never follow. And fuck did it hurt.
Just… let me see them one last time.
More tears spilled as her hands reached toward the light.
Just one last time!
The tendrils started to drag her back harder, seemingly getting impatient with the pointless struggle. A bout of irritation flared through her. She just wanted to see her friends’ memory one last time before being towed away on that stupid boat. Where was the harm in that?! She dug her nails into one of the tendrils and bit the one near her face, causing them to lurch back, almost as if they were offended that she had dared to retaliate. The others paused briefly in shock, but it was all she needed before throwing herself towards the light.
By the time the tendrils had recovered, she had already touched the tip of the halo.
And she was falling, falling, falling…
With a jolt, Winry found herself heaving precious gulps of air as she stared at a foreign ceiling. The phantom feeling of slicky tendrils tracing her skin had her suppress a violent shudder, and she glanced down quickly to make sure none of those lousy bastards had followed her here. To her utmost relief, there were no worm-like creatures in sight, but…
Her breathing slowed as she gaped at the king-sized bed she laid on. This was possibly the softest and comfiest mattress she had ever touched in her life. She was practically sinking in that thing!
What the hell just happened?
Did she… survive the accident after all? Was the wonky place she’s been stuck in just a side-effect from drugs?
She frowned, eyes darting around the room for any clue, taking in the bizarre furnitures with suspicious eyes. The room had more than enough sufficient lighting, what with the four oversized windows lining the high walls. Her eyes trailed up, fighting to close her gaping mouth as she spotted a grand chandelier adorning the middle of an intricately decorated gypsum ceiling, the hundred dozen of dangling crystals caught the sunlight streaming through lace curtains, causing iridescent spots to litter the richly-patterned wallpaper.
This isn’t… a hospital, right?
It certainly didn’t look like one. Unless there happened to be a ten-star hospital in Amestris that she wasn’t aware of.
Movement from the corner caught her eyes, and she turned to see an old woman fumbling with a vase of pink roses. She seemed too preoccupied with fluffing the petals to have noticed her.
“Uh… hello?” Winry croaked, wincing as her voice came out scratchy.
The old woman whirled around, a surprised look on her face. She immediately let go of the task at hand before skittering closer to the bed. Winry got a good look at her simple black dress and the white apron before the woman spoke quickly, “Good morning, dear. I’m sorry, I didn’t notice you were up already. Can you sit up? Would you like a cup of water?”
She blinked owlishly at the rapid assault of questions. A firm denial was on the tip of her tongue. How could she sit up after that accident? “I…” With a frown, she realized that she felt fine. Which was a troubling finding in itself, seeing how she was practically run over by a truck the other day. Her hands pushed on the mattress to sit up properly and she immediately regretted the fast motion as a throbbing headache made itself known.
“Ow, ow, ow…”
“Young Miss!” The woman exclaimed in her scratchy voice, further adding to her migraine, “What’s the matter? Oh, perhaps I should call the doctor back after all. Please say something. How are you feeling?”
Winry paused, debating her answer, “Like I’ve been hit by a truck.” She snorted at her own joke, a hand trailing up to assess the wound in her head.
The woman deflated at her reply, a nervous chuckle bubbling out, “Oh, please don’t exaggerate like that. You’ll give this old woman a heart attack!”
Before Winry could formulate a reply, she froze as her hand made contact with her bare neck. Feeling the blood drain from her face, she was horrified to find that her hair—her long, luscious locks that she had pain-stakingly grown for years—was gone. Her hands grappled around her neck a couple of times, and true enough, the ends barely reached below her nape, “My hair.” She gasped.
The woman looked her over for a moment before understanding dawned on her face. Her crow’s feet crinkled with kindness, “I’ll help you style it.”
Was her injury so bad that they had to shave her head off? If that was the case, then surely she would’ve been better off in a hospital instead of… wherever the hell this is?
“Why am I not in a hospital?”
The woman blinked back, “Master thought it would be best if you recuperated in a comfortable environment.”
Winry frowned at her vague answer.
At her confused expression, the woman smiled gently, “Dr. Maco had been personally called to oversee your injury, dear. You don’t need to worry.”
“Okay… that’s very kind of him.” Winry drawled uneasily. Not comfortable with how the woman looked at her expectantly, almost as if she should know who she was talking about. She looked around the room for her bag, not finding it in sight. If she felt fine then she saw no reason to stay here any longer. Shaking her head, she addressed the woman again, “I’m sorry. I’m kind of not following here.”
“That’s alright, dear. Master and Madame can go through with what happened in detail if you want.” She answered easily, hands hovering over her protectively. “They will be heading to the dining room soon. Would you like to join them for breakfast? I’m sure they’d be delighted to see you up and about.”
Ah, where were her manners? She can’t just leave without thanking whoever looked after her. Even if she thought their action was a tad bit unnecessary. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Nodding, the older woman grasped at Winry’s elbows firmly, positioning her so that her feet were flat on the ground with her upper body upright.
“Slowly now…” The woman mumbled, balancing her weight on her other leg. Winry could’ve sworn she heard her bones creak as the woman shifted. “Don’t stand up too fast if you’re feeling dizzy.”
Feeling the headache fade to a dull throb, Winry opened her eyes to observed the older woman closely. With a wrinkled, soft face that creased with every expression, she had a kind air about her. She would’ve probably been her height if not for the hunch in her back and her constant bending. Despite obviously having trouble moving herself, she was making sure Winry was taken care of. Winry smiled, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I caught your name?”
The woman startled back as if she had been physically struck. She blinked profusely before directing her gaze to where she was balancing Winry. Her voice had lost its gentle edge, now replaced by a reserved tone, “It’s Margaret, young Miss.”
Winry blinked, confused by the sudden change in attitude. Did she do something wrong? “Okay, um, Margaret.” She heaved herself up, and to her pure astonishment, she found that she can stand up with no trouble. The vehicle had run her over, right? Or did her delirious state exaggerate the happenings of the accident? Shaking her head, she returned her gaze to the woman, “Thank you for looking after me.”
Margaret took a step back and bowed slightly, her hands still latching onto Winry’s elbows to prevent any possible fall. “I’m only doing my job.”
Without further prompts, the woman steered Winry to the full-length mirror besides a massive built-in closet before setting her down on a velvet footrest facing the mirror. With a hand on her lower back, Margaret waddled slowly to the wardrobes and disappeared inside. The incessant shuffling of fabrics was the only indication that she was there.
Winry would’ve offered to help, seeing how her mobility was basically not affected. But she found herself frozen as she gaped back at her reflection.
Her trembling hands touched her short hair in horror. Unlike the conventional head-shave usually done before surgeries, her hair was purposely cut in a short bob. In fact, it was so short that the ends reached just below her nape with the longer sides curling to her cheek.
Not only that, but as she took a closer look at her body, the realization that something was definitely off had set root. Whereas her physique was mostly hidden under the pure satin nightgown, she can still make out her soft, overly-thin arms beneath the short sleeves. A hand wandered along the length to probe the limb properly, confirming her rising doubts.
Her muscles were gone.
Although she wasn’t one to overly scrutinize her body, she was still proud of her toned figure. It was proof of her hard work, of the countless hours she spent working metals and the endless sleepless nights that she gave up just to provide one more person with a hand or a leg to walk on.
But now her muscles were basically nonexistent.
Another poke at her soft arms made her scowl. She turned her palms over and stared at the callus-free fingers. What the hell? Her brows pulled closer. There were no cuts or scars from machine mishaps. In fact, it was so soft and unmarred that she could only compare it to a newborn baby’s skin.
There was no doubt about it. This was an overgrown baby’s hands; hands of someone who had never worked a day in their life.
She glanced up at the mirror to confirm that it really was her, cringing as she caught another look at her hair before focusing on her features. She safely concluded that, yes, this was her. Although… she did look a bit paler now that she stared long enough, and her skin lacked any blemishes, almost as if she’d been shielded from the sun for a long period of time.
“Margaret?” Winry called, hearing the affirmative grunt before asking, “How long have I been out?”
Margaret finally emerged from the closet, her arms were draped with colorful fabrics. She gave Winry a quizzical look, “I’d say… only for about half a day.”
Winry’s jaw fell open. There was no way her wounds would heal in half a day. Hell, her lungs were crushed and she was pretty sure there was a gaping wound on her head. But before she could question it further, the older woman made a show of exhibiting the clothes in front of her, her earlier sullen mood lifted at the prospect of dressing Winry up, “Now, dear, hurry and pick a dress if you don’t want to be late for breakfast.”
Winry pursued her lips as she looked at the options before her. The styles were a bit eccentric and nothing looked comfortable enough for practical wear. “Where are my clothes?”
Peering behind the barricade of dresses, Margaret frowned at Winry, “The ones you wore before?” at her curt nod, the woman promptly disappeared behind the clothes, shuffling them around to show other options, “They’re still being washed, dear.”
Stifling a frustrated groan, she contemplated on what to do. She really didn’t want to be rude and refuse the offered clothes, especially since the older woman had gone to great lengths to pick them, but she certainly can’t go out with her current attire either.
Another look at the dresses had her gnawing her lips. Couldn’t Margaret tell how inappropriate they were? No matter how Winry looked at it, those were clothes that people wore for special occasions.
Not wanting to cause a scene, she settled on a mid-calf length skirt and a simple blouse. It seemed the most practical out of the lot.
Quickly shedding her clothes and changing into the new ones, she pondered everything that had happened since she woke up. Nothing was adding up, and asking Margaret just further added to her confusion. As she buttoned up the blouse, Margaret had taken to comb her hair, carefully curling the long sides to her cheek. Noticing the slight tremors in her hands, Winry wondered how old the woman was.
She grimaced as part of the puzzle suddenly started to make sense. The poor old woman must be senile. Winry nodded to herself. That would explain her mood swings and implausible answers. And, well, glancing one last time at the mirror, there would be a solid reason behind her odd sense of style.
For now, only one person could answer her amassing questions.
This Master that she kept hearing about.
With a sigh, she stood up, gesturing for Margaret to lead the way. “Alright, let’s go.”
Winry tried to keep up with the older woman’s fast pace. Despite her old age and the waddle in her steps, Margaret was surprisingly a fast walker. She took her through long white marbled hallways with practiced ease. It took a lot of effort for Winry to not gape as she strode past the dozens of rooms. There were chandeliers in halls for God’s sake! If she had any doubt that she was in a hospital, then it flew straight out of the French doors lining the balcony where she got a good view of the gigantic garden outside.
She was in a freaking mansion.
Not that it should surprise her; the room she woke up in should’ve cued her in.
Her mind ran over the previous events again. Now if she excluded Margaret’s previous answers, she can somewhat make sense of what happened.
If she had been in a coma for long and her condition had been stable, then she wouldn’t put it past the hospital to have pressured her relatives to transport her elsewhere for the duration of her convalescence. She personally saw how hospitals were overly crowded, and honestly, she wouldn’t blame them for trying to find ways to clear beds for patients who truly needed them.
That puts her to where she was now. Giving a wary glance at the view from upstairs, Winry descended the slope of one of the two arches of wide marbled stairs and into the mansion’s massive foyer where they took a left to another long hallway.
The person who ran her over must’ve been some rich person, or at least, the truck must’ve been owned by them. As to why she was here, well… they must’ve felt responsible enough to take the burden of overseeing her recuperation.
A sudden nagging feeling prickled her. Did her grandma agree to this? She couldn’t imagine the prideful woman letting someone else care for her granddaughter while she was alive.
Unless…
No! Don’t overthink this, stupid! She mentally scolded herself, willing the vile thought to vanish before it spread its ugly roots. While her grandma was one of the strongest people she knew, she was still old. She couldn’t have possibly had the strength to look after a comatose patient on her own and juggle her automail business at the same time.
Grandma is fine. Winry grasped the hem of her blouse tightly with renowned conviction. She has to be.
The only plausible explanation for this bizarre situation was that the person responsible for the accident and her grandma must’ve reached a mutual agreement.
Everything else was self-explanatory. Her muscles had atrophied from misuse and her hair had grown after seemingly being shaved clean for surgery.
…But it still didn’t answer where her scars had disappeared to.
She frowned. No, that didn’t make sense. Nothing she speculated made any sense. If she’d been in a coma then there was no way she could’ve walked around this easily right after waking up in the first place.
Stifling a sigh, she focused on following the old woman instead. There was no use thinking about this. She’ll get all her answers once she sees this Master that Margaret kept bringing up.
They finally stopped before a grand double door where two men in black suits with black bows instantly opened them. Winry did a double take once she got a good look at one of the men with the receding hairline.
She’s pretty sure she’d seen that face dozens of times behind the counter of Risembool’s local grocery store whenever she went to town.
“Mr. Clark?” Winry gasped.
The man bowed deeply, “At your service, Miss.”
Before she could ask why he was pretending to be some high-classed butler, Margaret nudged her to enter the room, “Come on, dear. The food will get cold.”
She didn’t tear her eyes away from him even as she stumbled dazedly through the door. Mr. Clark was like an uncle figure to her and the boys. He had always greeted them cheerfully, so why was he suddenly acting all distant?
She swallowed thickly.
Did he not remember her?
“My precious princess.”
Winry froze.
Her head turned around slowly, eyes growing wide as she zeroed in on the lone figure sitting at the head of a large dining table. He was sitting back with one leg crossed over the other, casually flipping through a newspaper as he sipped from a gold-rimmed teacup. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
It was a face she traced with her fingers many times on old, crumpled photographs. Cried herself to sleep more than she can count, desperately wishing that she could see just one more time.
“Daddy?” She choked, a hand flying to her quivering lips to stifle her cry.
The man finally looked up at the obvious distress in her voice. His quizzical gaze looking her over.
She felt silly as soon as she blurted the word out. Her dad was dead. Had been dead for a good sixteen years now. This man only had an astounding resemblance to her father, nothing more.
This is what her dad would’ve looked like had he survived.
“You’re late, darling.” A sweet voice admonished from behind, and Winry whirled around so quickly she was surprised her head didn’t snap. “Breakfast starts at nine sharp. Dr. Marco already cleared you so you have no excuse.”
Sarah Rockbell, albeit looking older and slimmer, stood in all her glory with her arms crossed.
All air was expelled from her lungs as she breathed out shakily, “Mom?”
Her mother’s look-alike sashayed past her to peck her husband on the cheek, her swishing dress carrying the scent of roses behind her.
“Mom, is that really you?”
“Yes, honey, I think we’ve already… established…” The woman trailed off as she saw tears falling down her daughter’s face.
Urey stood from the table in alarm, newspaper forgotten as it slipped on the floor, “What’s the matter?”
“I-I don’t understand.” Winry took a few shaky steps back. Vaguely aware that she was on the verge of hyperventilating. Sarah approached quickly, raising a hand as if to touch her, but Winry flinched away. “You’re both dead. I-I saw you with my own eyes. I—“
“Dear, please, sit down.” Urey pulled the closest chair next to her and tried to guide her to it. He exchanged a confused look with his wife.
“Am I dead?” Winry whispered, eyes growing wide with realization. Did she die after all? She knew there was no way she could’ve survived with injuries that fatal, so does that mean… “Is this the afterlife?”
“No!” Sarah gasped, her hands flying to her heart. The woman looked torn, as if she couldn’t decide whether to be scared or angry, “If this is one of your silly antics then stop it at once!”
Urey stood close to his wife, eyes darting between the two women nervously, unsure which side to pick.
“If I’m not dead and this isn’t the afterlife, then how the hell are you two here?!” Winry gestured wildly to the couple. She resisted the urge to pace around. Looking like a restless madwoman was the last thing she wanted right now, “Me and Granny buried you ourselves!”
“Honey,” Urey’s face blanched as he took staggering steps towards her, “My mother… your grandmother had passed away three years ago, remember?”
Yeah, fuck this.
She can’t stay still.
“You can’t be serious,” She paced around the room, refusing to look at the two people she once desperately wanted to see. Her hand flew to cradle her head, feeling the earlier headache pounce back with a vengeance. Granny was dead? What the hell were they saying? “You can’t be fucking serious.”
They’re crazy. This whole fucking place is crazy.
“Wendy, darling. Please just sit down.” Sarah pleaded, looking on the verge of crying herself.
Her hands fell from her face and she gaped tiredly at the agitated woman, “What did you just call me?”
“Wendy, please.” She tried to pull Winry by the hand, “You’re looking a bit pale. Just sit down for now, alright sweetie?”
“I’m Winry!” Winry hissed, yanking her hand back harshly, not caring how her parents’ look-alikes’ faces contorted in anguish, “My name is Winry!”
Sarah trembled, seemingly having lost the will to bring her daughter back to reality. She turned to the alarmed maids standing by the door and shrieked, “What are you doing? Hurry up and call the doctor!”
That wasn’t supposed to irk her, but it did, “You’re a doctor!”
“Let’s all just calm down!” Urey bellowed, looking the least calm of them all, his wild eyes flying all over the room as more servants rushed in.
“How do you expect me to calm down when my daughter thinks we’re all dead?!”
“I-I’m sure this is all temporary. This must be a side-effect from the hit she received. Dr. Marco must’ve overlooked something. I-I’m sure that this can be fixed—” Urey kept mumbling to himself.
“Did she… did she get brain damaged?!” Sarah let out a loud wail, pulling out a silk handkerchief to wipe her eyes. And if Winry had the least bit of energy left, she would’ve explained to “her mother”—who was a doctor by the way—that brain damage doesn’t quite work like that, “Oh, my poor Wendy!”
Winry inhaled deeply, suddenly feeling awfully exhausted with everything happening around her. She watched the commotion unfold as butlers carried a landline to the man losing his head and the maids scattering around the room trying to comfort the woman bawling on the floor.
And Margaret… Margaret was watching from the sides looking as equally baffled as everyone else.
Winry snorted without mirth.
Turns out the old woman wasn’t senile after all.
Maybe Winry herself was the one who had lost her mind. At least that’s what every single person seemed to think as they nervously watched her from a fair distance away.
And not for the first time, she let her brain repeat the same question that has been insistently plaguing her ever since she’s been hit by that stupid truck.
What the hell is happening?