After the wailing was broken into silent protests, the room was uncomfortably quiet again. The mother of Eileen, a tall and dignified upper-class office lady, staggered in broken steps back, all the while glancing momentarily over her shoulder towards the pale-skin corpse of her daughter. Her husband had his arms around her shoulder, an attempt at comfort. His gray hair was overwhelming for middle-age, back slouched like a crane. He whispered a few words into the ears of his spouse, recognizing their futility in consoling the damaged woman, all the while battling his own tears.
