It’s Lynn's belief, a truth forged in the crucible of her own life, that whenever we are on this world, even if we don't think it's going to get us, eventually, it catches up. Karma, in its own slow, relentless, and often invisible way, ensures that what goes around, truly does come around. It’s not always a dramatic thunderclap or an immediate, obvious retribution. Sometimes, **karma** arrives like a creeping fog, subtly eroding peace of mind, souring relationships, or manifesting as a quiet, gnawing emptiness. People might live for years, even decades, seemingly untouched by the unkindness they inflict, the deceit they weave, or the judgment they cast. They might climb to power, gather wealth, or maintain a flawless public image. But the world remembers. Every cruel word, every hidden betrayal, every dismissal. In the end, things become even. **Lynn** has seen this happen. She’s felt its chilling breath, and now she knows it to be as real as the relentless march of time or the certainty of the sunrise. It's exhausting, this constant cycle, this knowing. If only people would just **listen** when they have the chance, instead of waiting for the hard lessons to hit. **Lynn's** so tired of hearing, "Why didn't you do it?" or "You should have spoken up." Why not just listen the first time?

Chapter 1: The Echo of Silence

For as long as Lynn could remember, her voice had been a whisper in a storm. She'd stand on the edge of conversations, hand half-raised, throat tight with words that seemed to dissolve before they could ever truly form. It wasn't that **Lynn** didn't speak; she offered her side, her way of seeing things, the quiet counterpoints to their often loud and firm stories. But it was like trying to hum a soft song in the middle of a roaring rock concert. **Lynn's** melody, no matter how honest, was always lost, pushed aside as if it didn't matter, or simply not heard at all. There was a silent agreement, it seemed, that **Lynn's** version of events meant less, held less truth. Their story was the accepted truth, strong and unbending, while **Lynn's**? It was just noise, a wrong note to be ignored, a bother to be pushed away.

**Lynn's** sister, **Jane**, knew this feeling even more than **Lynn** did. **Jane** tried to tell her, she really did. She'd start to talk about how things really were, how **Mother** acted, or the weight of something she carried, but **Lynn** would often cut her off. "Oh, it's just **Mom**," **Lynn** would say, a quick defense rising up, "Don't talk bad about her." **Lynn** didn't want to hear it. She couldn't see it then, or maybe she didn't want to. **Lynn** was lost in her own fog, trying to believe the easy story, too afraid to look at the truth **Jane** was holding out. Now, **Lynn** sees she was just as blind as the others, brushing away **Jane's** words, not realizing **Jane** was living through what **Lynn** is facing now.

**Lynn** wanted them to see the other angles, the long, dark shadows that twisted the bright picture they so easily accepted. She deeply wanted them to understand the reasons behind her actions, the quiet struggles that shaped her choices, the weak spots that often went unseen. She wanted them to look closer, to truly listen, to pull back the layers of what they thought they knew and what they judged. But it was like trying to show someone a color they simply couldn't see, their minds clouded by their own fixed ideas. Their minds were already made up, their ears already tuned to a different, easier way of thinking. The idea that what they knew might not be complete, might even be totally wrong, seemed to be something they couldn't or wouldn't think about. This blindness, both in thought and feeling, felt like choking. Every honest try to explain, to make things clear, to just be heard, felt like hitting a solid wall, built from years of old ideas and a stubborn refusal to see beyond their own preconceived notions.