They gather in a circle, fragile figures veiled in ochre and dust. At the center, a taller, horned being leans forward whispering without a mouth, speaking without words.The others listen not with ears, but with their whole bodies, as if silence itself had a shape.Their skin, marked by earth and light, tells of the same origin: clay and breath.Nothing moves, yet everything resonates a moment suspended between before and after.It might be a prayer. Or a beginning.A shared memory of a world not yet born.