At the edge of morning, a small ritual opens: a palm, a seed, a breath.
The room holds a hush that remembers the night, its soft assemblies, its unhurried agreements.
A kettle ticks.
Light turns the table into a quiet lake. Steam sketches an alphabet no one speaks, yet somehow knows.
Today’s promise is orientation.
The task is to meet time as it arrives, to let it show its contours, to match its stride without rushing its voice.
A page waits.
A question waits beside it.
Between them, a path forms—narrow and certain, like a thread recognized by touch.
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