She had inherited her mother’s story.
Just like her eyes and her voice.
It was passed down.
A story laced around her ribs that kept vigil over her heart.
A story written into the lines of her hands.
Protected by her fists.
Fighting off memories that weren’t her own.
Standing guard a generation too late.
Mindful of the propensities toward doubt and fear that she’d seen flash in those eyes.
Eyes that they shared.
She’d be the hero in her mother’s story.
Taking on ghosts that mother couldn’t take on herself.
And she’d win.
Equipped with the advantage of having read the story once before.