carved at the ice in my hand, moulding it and shaping it absentmindedly until it was taking the form of a bird. No, not a bird. A Phoenix. Of course. I often dwelled on Darcy, how breath-taking she’d looked when she’d visited, how much I’d wanted to drag her into my arms and beg for her forgiveness. I knew every word of our conversation by heart and regretted at least eighty percent of them. But there was no room for regret in my life anymore. I had to push her away. It had to be like this. Even if I’d tried to apologise, what good would it have done? I didn’t want her forgiveness. I didn’t
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