"Memories have a way of twisting the knife, turning even the kindest intentions into painful reminders. They linger like shadows, a constant reminder of the past's cruel lessons, making every step forward heavy with the weight of regret," I muttered, the irony cutting deeper than ever. Surrounded by the wreckage of my good intentions, I couldn't fathom how profoundly I had miscalculated. Alvara had just woken up from a two-week coma, and instead of bringing her comfort, I had reopened her wounds. The scene replayed in my mind: her standing in the cabin, surrounded by roses, eyes shifting from confusion to sheer agony. What had I been thinking? Each petal was a dagger to her heart, and I was the fool who placed them there. Desperation fueled my steps as I headed to the library. As I opened the door, there she was, lost in her thoughts, a distant look in her eyes. "Alvara," I called softly, stepping closer. "Avy… Vara." No response. The silence was suffocating. I reached out, my touch gentle yet hopeful. As my fingers brushed her shoulder, she recoiled violently.