The beam sweeps across the night, tracing paths through misty memories.
Voices echo from the cavernous depths of initiation rites, where shadows are shaped like giants,
and whispers form vials of luminescence to drink in the dawn.
The spiral staircase winks at your bare feet, each step a memory, a heartbeat in the stone walls
that know every secret, every promise swallowed by the sea.
Hands reach from the darkness – initiators of old, their faces obscured by hoods of ozone and time.
Your name is called, but it is not your name – it is the name of all who have stood beneath the lighthouse,
turning towards the beacon.
You kneel, not by choice but by a pull of gravity, a force of generations.
Offerings of salt and dreams scattered across wooden floors worn by the ceaseless tide.
The walls begin to hum, resonating with a truth not meant for waking days.