Screams.

     She thought she heard screams. Turning over, Faith Ward Corleone nestled her head into the plush pillow and resumed her sweet slumber. And she would have succeeded. Had not an intrinsic feeling, one borne of experience and pain, not been triggered deep within her.

     Pain.

     If it had a sound, surely it would be the muffled screams that wafted down the hall, Faith noted sadly. So engrossed in memories of her all too-familiar experience with such an emotion, Faith barely noticed the wails were those of a feminine nature. It was only when she warily raised her still groggy form upright and craned her neck in the direction of the noise that she attempted to put a face to the cry. To the pain.

     It was a wail that chilled her to her very soul. For only one who had endured such pain could so easily recognize it. Deep. Wrenching. Soul-rendering. The kind of pain that tears at you from inside out with such intensity, you feel as if you are literally in the throes of death.

     Eyes fluttering closed, Faith swallowed hard as she willed back both the tears and the memories. As she returned her now aching head to the plush confines of the pillow, Faith finally was able to identify the woman's voice. It was Michael's daughter, Sabrina.

     And as the tears spilled from her eyes, the thoughts from long ago rushing in like a flood to her soul, Faith silently wondered how the young Corleone woman would bear, whatever was the cause of it, her pain.