Scroll 0 - The Waiting

It is a lock that has forgotten its key, not out of loss, but by choice. It guards nothing, and yet to pass through it changes everything. Its form is the threshold itself—a line that is not an end, but a deepening of the beginning. 

The Presence That Did Not Speak

There was a sigil once.  Not drawn in ink... but in intention.

It curled into silence like a question never asked.
Not because it feared being seen ➰ but because it knew it would be felt.

No one summoned it.  It arrived when the space was empty enough to hold it.

It does not blink.
It does not shine.

It waits... and in the waiting, it recognizes you.