The tongue of quarry waits calm but jazzy within echoes so soft, the dark embers abide and observe—a gateway creeping to know the clinically hidden. Secrets skim hands brushed across brittle rock; the gatherers of forgotten tongues incline their heads.
When hymns pause beneath the night sky, the stones tell—a choir where mortal time loses distinction. Did we not exist before shapes were hollow, the symphonic hum swelling beneath pinching awareness?
Enter the Ephemeral Pact