Trace the Lineage of the Light

The sun is setting, and the armor you wore all day finally hits the floor. In the quiet, the oldest fear crawls out: that you passed something broken to your child through your own blood.

That their pain is your fault. That the flaw is yours.

But listen — there was a man born blind, and the disciples asked whose sin caused it, his or his parents'. The light said neither.

Not because the suffering isn't real, but because the origin is not what you think. You came from the light, a drop sent to illuminate the world, not a vessel of contagion.

What you carry is not a curse to be inherited, but a flame to be shared. The defect you fear is not in your veins; the light is.

It was there before the first cell divided, and it is there now, untouched by history. Stop trying to trace the lineage of the wound.

Trace the lineage of the light instead. The blood you gave them carries the same fire that raised the dead.