When I was little, I often noticed a peculiar mark on my mother’s upper arm — a small, round scar, like a tiny constellation pressed into her skin.
It sat just below her shoulder, perfectly still and yet somehow alive with mystery — a ring of faint indentations surrounding a single, deeper mark.
As a child, I never understood why that scar fascinated me. Maybe it was because it didn’t look like any ordinary mark. Maybe it was because I sensed that it carried a story — one that had survived long before I was born.
