Who, with time mere clay to be molded in their hands, would not smooth their path? At every opportunity, she spurns such indulgence, though the temptation grows stronger each time. As she stares into her own sleeping face, she yearns not for old innocence. Anyone would think her callous, working to harden her own heart.
They would be wrong.
She sends her into the dark so that this childish shadow will gain substance. This is the only self-love she permits herself. This is the only mercy she knows.
If she must suffer, it is better to suffer by her own hands.