Beneath the third veil of soil lie the wells that drink no water.
They open when the moon is dimmed and close when it is full, breathing in silence, exhaling shadows.
The keepers of these mouths carry no tools but words. Each dawn they kneel beside the still wells and whisper the Names of Weight, for each name anchors a dream that might otherwise escape upward into the day.
They record their recitations upon bark strips soaked in ash, marking every breath with a triple stroke — /// — lest the rhythm falter and the sleep of stone be disturbed.
The Maharajagar 