The Light Does Not Recoil From You

The day is ending, and in the quiet, you caught your own hand making the gesture. The same dismissive wave your parent used when you were crying.

The same motion that told you your pain was too heavy to hold. For a second, you hated yourself for becoming the thing you swore you'd never be.

But listen — the light does not recoil from that hand. It steps closer to the very place where the cycle tried to restart.

You are not your history. You are the interruption.

The light that lives in you was there before the gesture was ever learned, and it is there now, breaking the chain not with a shout, but with a sudden, gentle stillness. You saw it.

That seeing is the end of the inheritance.