Winchester women were young and beautiful. They shone with golden light. Their hair was that of angels. And their deaths were as tragic as they come. They were smart and funny and loving and cared for their families. They were the thing each girl wanted to be. The girl each guy wanted to marry. They were perfect in every way. And for those who remembered them. They were purer than snow. Winchester women were beautiful and smart and strong and lovely. But Winchester women were just memories. Dead while they were still young and beautiful.
Winchester men were strong and handsome and loyal. They were kind and funny. They had more heart than the average man. Yet showed it less. They were feared by the wicked. Loved by the good. They were smart and crafty. But they were scarred. Bullet holes and claw marks. Teeth marks and broken bones. Their hearts were like tattered paper. Ripped and torn. Barely recognizable. Held together only by the sheer amount of it. They had a gravity that held them together and drew others toward them. The gravity of tattered hearts.