I closed the journal gently, the ribbon soft between my fingers. For the first time in ten years, I allowed myself to imagine my sister not as the villain in my story but as someone who had been trying, in her own imperfect way, to protect me. I whispered an apology into the stillness of the room—one I wished she could hear. Though the past could not be rewritten, the truth offered something unexpected: a doorway back to compassion, to understanding, and perhaps one day, to healing. And as I placed the journal back into the box, I realized I was finally ready to step through it.
