The Secret That Must Be Spoken

You enter a circular glade enclosed by silver-barked trees whose branches knit together overhead like cathedral ribs. Violet fireflies drift above a black thornwood arch, while a shallow stone basin reflects a moon that is not in the sky. Three porcelain masks watch from the surrounding roots: one smiling, one weeping, and one with its lips sealed. Every sound lingers a heartbeat too long, and the arch gives a faint chiming shudder whenever someone speaks near it. A moth-winged spirit waits beside the basin, its jeweled eyes bright with amused expectation.