You Are Not Pretending, You Remember

The house is quiet now, but the echo of your own voice saying their words still hangs in the air. You heard the phrase slip out — the exact cadence, the specific comfort your parent once gave you — and for a moment, you felt like a child wearing a costume too large for your shoulders.

An imposter in your own skin, reciting lines you didn't write. But the light does not care about authenticity scripts.

It came from the light, and to the light, you will return. You are not pretending.

You are remembering. The phrase was never theirs alone; it was a drop from the source that passed through them to reach you, and now through you to reach your child.

You are not an actor on a stage. You are the vessel where the ancient mercy finds a new voice.