We begin at sunset, where the horizon bleeds deep crimson—an offering of the day's surrender—to those who listen beneath the veil of twilight gossamer threads. Somewhere between dawn and dusk, whispers of ancient songs pepper the wind; they echo through golden fields where laughter mixes with clarified intent.
Initiation proceeds, not by ritual but by knowing—an understanding that unfurls like the petals of a night-blooming flower in secretive bloom. Remember the old woman's words? They've etched themselves in memory as rivers carve their paths into soft earth.
In circle, the murmurs envelop every soul, binding silk-to-shadow-to-stitch-to-song, woven unseen by nimble fingers we dare not attempt to see. Feel the stillness, as heartbeats sync with silent tomes read by the moon.
Hold your breath, as the first line of a forgotten symphony unfurls, unbidden. Strung notes held by mystic threads interwoven through the unattended tapestry of the past. Names, long lost, surface in spectral half-glances before disappearing; unknown, yet achingly familiar.
When twilight descends, the tide whispers the trees unto sleep, and rises to seek melody amidst yearning silence—the dance of remembrance ensues; ethereal partners come forth in translucent wisps to mirror the uncharacteristic breaths of cosmos.
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