Dear Zara,
If you are reading this, then I am gone. And by now, I doubt you are 18—or a ballerina.
How do I know? Because I knew you. The little girl who twirled through my study, always dancing when she should have been learning something useful. A dreamer. A stubborn, reckless dreamer. But dreams, child, are not enough.
You have always had a fire in you, Zara, but fire without direction burns out fast. And your heart—too soft, too trusting. You give too much, too fast. A fool for love.
Yet, despite all of this, I am leaving Quinn Sculpt & Style to you. Not because you earned it. Not because you are ready. But because you are a Quinn. My blood. My gender.
Do not mistake this for a gift. It is a burden. A legacy carved from fire and steel, built by hands that bled to make it strong. And now, it is yours.
But tell me, Zara—have you finally let go of that foolish dream?
