If I Could Grow You

My embryo transfer failed. The algorithm labeled it “failure.” People said “just relax and forget.” But you can't forget what lived inside your body.

Inside a transparent egg — fallen wood, moss, water, and mist. Everyday, the system breathes, mist rises, moss absorbs, water returns, the cycle begins again.

I chose moss because moss doesn't die in one direction. It dries, it returns, it grows from what decays. I saw this cycle on Yakushima — an island where death and life share the same breath.

The moss grows. Sometimes it withers. I let it. The change is the work.

Each cycle forgives me a little. Not all at once. Slowly, the way moss grows. This work is how I learn to let go.