Blast cells are the unfinished, dangerous seeds of this disease, multiplying where good blood should be. Induction chemotherapy is meant to drown that first crop, and consolidation to scorch the earth so nothing grows back. But my life shows the earth has a memory; it recalled the blasts after all those poisons, when we thought the field was clean. Now my own blood tests are a quieter, more stubborn worry than Ma's medicine, *bhala*—a map of returning shadows.
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