The hanami brief whispered impermanence, and I wanted to honor that without making it pretty. What if the cherry blossoms weren't decoration but divination? What if the compass wasn't held but submerged, read through distortion and steam? The Wolof tradition of water-based ritual fused with Carpathian thermal spring culture gave me something that felt ancient and slightly wrong — a tooth finding true north in mineral water while petals fall like answers no one wanted. The storm approaching is the clock. — Sable