Eighty-nine. Eighty-nine days and counting. Why does he count the days? He denies the whispers of his heart, yet, he counts the days. He is desperate to forget, but how could he when her shadow still lingers? The turning motion of the wheel does not dispel her from his thoughts. It did not help him forget her yesterday, nor the day before and the day before and the day before. He knows it is a fruitless endeavour, but he is a desperate man. Alone in his castle he spins from dawn to dusk. It feels like he has spun forever.
