Before you stand ten mirrors — not of glass, but of memory, breath, and light. Each one holds the eyes of a child who once lived in you, who still does, quietly. Do not look away when you meet that gaze. It has seen more than you ever dared to name. It remembers the moment before words, before shame, before the world began dividing love from fear. This is not a book of sorrow. It is a map of tenderness — a path back to the place where every soul begins: small, trusting, radiant. And if tears come, let them fall without apology. They are not weakness. They are how the child inside you speaks. Do not turn away from that voice. Do not hush it again. Because when a child is silenced — anywhere in the world, in any language, in any body — the silence spreads through generations. But when one heart listens, truly listens, the silence breaks. So read gently. These mirrors are not for judgment. They are for remembrance — and for the promise that no child, not even the one within you, will ever be forgotten again.