Long before calendars were trusted, people watched the sky. They marked time not by numbers, but by light, shadow, and the quiet pull of something always returning.

The moon was never in a hurry. It disappeared without apology, then came back whole again, reminding anyone paying attention that absence and renewal were part of the same cycle.

The Lunar Chapter was written for that moment in between. When the year turns, when intentions are still fragile, and when the smallest rituals feel like anchors.

This chapter does not shout. It glows. Gold marks the passage. Symbols hold what words don’t need to explain. Once the season moves on, the chapter closes until the moon says otherwise.