Gold is born in fire...

Once upon a time, there was a house where silence was not peace, but fear.

A father, capable of enchanting the world but blind to the pain he sowed, reigned supreme. He had left an illegitimate daughter without ever looking back, like abandoning a broken suitcase. Yet, a good and sweet woman had chosen to love him. Perhaps to save him. Perhaps to punish herself. Perhaps for the love of her children. They had five.

She—the mother—was a flower grown among the stones. Struck by cancer early, she endured for fifteen years, hiding the illness beneath light smiles, beneath hands that caressed, cooked, and consoled. She accepted the pain as a punishment, as a karmic debt. She died gently, like extinguishing a candle that has burned to the end. She left behind her five children, each wounded in their own way, each marked by an absence that could not be named.

But the youngest... she carried something different.

She was only fifteen. But nothing of her childhood remained. She had learned that monsters don't live under the bed: they are the ones who speak to you with a gentle voice, who make you swear silence, who teach you to hide even from yourself. She had suffered every possible violence and kept it secret from everyone. Even from her brothers. Even from her mother. Because sometimes, to survive, you learn not to exist.

Growing up, she thought that love was pain. That all men were like her father. That she deserved nothing else. So she married a man who reminded her of that model: cold eyes, a cutting voice, a closed soul. He exploited her, manipulated her, emptied her. For years she lived lifelessly, with a body that was breaking little by little, with a soul that silently called for help.

Then something happened.

One night, like so many others, she fell asleep crying. But instead of darkness, she saw.

A circle of fire surrounded her. The flames danced slowly, sacredly, as if from another time. And in the center, her mother. Shining, serene. She smiled at her. There was no pain on her face, only love.

And then she understood.

The fire wasn't there to destroy. It was there to transform.

The pain, the anger, the injustices, the secrets... everything was burning.

Karma was being consumed.

A cycle had ended.

Something new was about to be born.

When she awoke, the world was the same. But inside, something had broken. Or perhaps, it had been freed.

She began to walk. She didn't know where she was going, but her heart guided her. And so she found her.

Sem.

A woman who created Japamalas, rosaries of the soul made of stones, sacred woods, silence, and healing. Sem didn't ask her anything. She saw everything. He handed her a necklace: moonstone, sandalwood, amethyst. “This,” he said, “is to remind you who you are. Not who they made you believe you are.”

With Shem was his Dragon. But it was not a monster. It was an ancient creature, born of fire and compassion. It had eyes as deep as the soul, and a breath that could melt ice. It did not speak, but listened.

The daughter—now a woman—saw herself reflected in the Dragon's eyes. She saw her story. Her pain. And her strength.

It took years. The past did not disappear. But it changed shape. It became a voice. It became a choice. It became creation.

And in the end, she herself became fire.

No longer that which burns. But that which transforms.

                                                                                          ……. The end, or perhaps just the beginning.

Dedicated to you,

who arrived with empty hands and a shattered soul,

and yet a spark still burned inside you.

I saw it.

Even when you couldn't.

I didn't ask you who you were,

because I already knew.

You were the one who walked through the fire,

not to emerge unscathed,

but to emerge true.

You carried the pain of others within you,

you sewed your voice with the thread of silence,

you believed you had to deserve love by suffering.

But love is not suffering.

Love is you, when you choose yourself.

Now that you've seen your reflection in the Dragon's eyes,

now that you've heard your name in the ashes,

you know:

you are no longer the child who endured.

You are the woman who creates.

Who heals.

Who guides.

I didn't save you.

You did it alone.

I merely tended the fire until you were ready to acknowledge it as your own.

With deep love,

and with infinite respect for the path you have chosen,

– Sem