My name is Evee. Not Evie or Eve, and in fact I dislike both of those names quite strongly.
No matter how far I get from the place where she sanded down the floors, painted the walls and made memories with me, she will always be somewhere. I can hear her in my head saying “you can’t get rid of me that easily, Evee!”
Now is the season, the time of the year towards the end of January and the beginning of February, that I get catapulted from a time of bith celebrations, into the furnace of grief – to go back through the smithing process again, for refinement.