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She stood before me—innocent, but not untouched.

Inside her lived every fracture handed down to her: the patterns of her ancestors, the nightmares her mother never named, the wounds that were never allowed to close. She carried them quietly, as if they were her own.

Like karma drifting through another plane, waiting—patient—for someone to take hold of it and call it real.

“I choose you,” it says.

I choose you, mother.
I choose you, father.

Teach me guilt so I can mistake it for safety.
Teach me retribution so I can learn sorrow.

We pass it back and forth without knowing—this exchange of damage, this inheritance of cause and effect. Not sacred. Not divine. Just repeated.

Like a failed experiment—two unstable elements meeting under the illusion they understand each other. The crack was always there. Misperception. Misunderstanding. Pressure with nowhere to go.

And then it breaks.

The beaker doesn’t hold it anymore—it becomes part of it. Just as I became part of her. Just as she became part of me.

Bound. Repeating. Unquestioned.

Until someone interrupts it—
not to fix it,
but to see it clearly enough
to end it.

Because no one begins clean.
No one escapes untouched.
And no one leaves without leaving something behind.

No innocence survives contact with another life.

Only recognition—or repetition.