What will you do now, with the heart still beating in your chest? When healing was never about erasing the story, but perhaps learning how to carry it without reopening every wound just to feel close to what hurt you, can you forgive yourself for the chapters written when you were surviving more than living, and then, slowly, almost tremblingly, choose differently? Because even after everything, the story is still listening to you. Endings, they say, are unlike beginnings, for they are shaped by the person you become after the damage. And still, tell that to my mind, which does not know how to hold certain memories softly. The kind that stays buried for months, almost mercifully, until something small awakens them again. A song. A scent. A sentence spoken in the wrong tone. Suddenly, I am no longer here in the present, but back there again. Reliving the day it happened. As if pain does not understand time. As if my body still believes it is happening for the first time. When the storm finally loosens its grip, I am left more fragile than before, as though the memory has found another way to live through me again. M.