There is a persistent unease that accompanies the realisation of inheritance-that the roots have already buried themselves, curling inward, embedded despite the absence of nurture. The body becomes host to what is uninvited, yet all too familiar.
The permeation is pungent—that deep satirical stench of rot, where sweetness cannot mask decay.

Even with a greedy hand, teeth barbed like a starved hound, there is no guarantee that uprooting will suffice. The seed, after all, has long been planted.

Yet is salvation necessary, or is it merely the fear of becoming that demands an empty sacrifice? Inheritance is not a portrait, but a haunting. Not a story, but a stain.