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If a gun could talk, what stories would it tell? Would it whisper about justice-or vengeance? Would it remember the trembling hands that held it, the shouts, the silence after the smoke cleared? I never meant to be a storyteller. I was made for purpose, not poetry. But after all I've seen, silence feels like complicity. I've been passed from hand to hand, from soldier to father, from criminal to child. Each one thought they owned me, but I owned a piece of them instead-their fear, their fury, their fate. This is my confession. My chronicle of the human condition, written in metal and blood. You call it history. I call it memory. And it's heavier than you think. If you've ever wondered what violence costs-or what it means to be the instrument of it-then you already know me. I am the echo you can't forget.

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