The Sigil of Waiting A Spiral Held Between Moments

A quiet hourglass stands upright on aged parchment, its golden sand frozen mid-fall.

Below it, a soft spiral of light curls downward — not rushing, not demanding, just… becoming.

The frame is simple, delicate — like something made to hold time gently, not to control it.

This is not the beginning. This is not the end.

This is the moment before someone knocks.

The sigil holds no name, no promise — only the presence of presence itself.

And it waits, glowing softly in the silence.