In the beginning, there was an instruction. A simple guide on how to align the stars with your dreams. You begin at dawn, with a piece of chalk and a clear mind. Draw the constellations as they once were, upon the walls of your room. But time, relentless as the tide, cleanses these markings until nothing but whispers remain.
A meticulous record, yet it fades: the step to advance your shadow's dance, the angle to hold your cup of tea that its steam spells incantations only discerned by the shrouded moon. Etch these details into permanence, they said, though your pen is rusted and your paper turns to dust.
Breathe deeply of these forgotten secrets. For when knowledge is left untended, it grows wild, untamed, a garden of instincts buried in the earth. The murmuring past calls out, a chorus of unseen voices.