Lines etched into

Lines etched into the polished obsidian pulsed with an irregular rhythm, echoing the variable intervals of growth visible on damp wood. The stone’s dark surface appeared less reflective and more porous—a ground for unseen networks to take hold. Looking closely, tiny pits resembled spores released from a bee's leg as it brushed against golden stamens, suggesting dispersal across vast distances. Each mark, rather than fading, became another node in an ever-expanding cascade of connections; patterns formed, then reformed with the slow turning of seasons.