The workshop was quiet except for the rhythmic sound of Jack’s chisel scraping against the ice. He was working late again, long after most of the festival volunteers had packed up and gone home. The only light in the room came from the overhead bulbs and the faint glow of moonlight streaming through the frosted windows. His breath puffed in the cold air as he worked, his focus entirely on the block of ice in front of him.
Or at least, he tried to focus.
The half-finished sculpture—an eagle mid-flight—stared back at him, its wings only partially formed, its body rough and incomplete. Normally, carving brought him peace, an escape from the whirlwind of thoughts that haunted him. But tonight, no matter how many times he adjusted the angle of his chisel or smoothed the edges, the heaviness
