You first see them in the town square at dusk, where the air is thick with whispers and the glow of lanterns barely reaches the edges of the gathering crowd. A masked figure stands in the center, draped in dark robes, their beaked mask gleaming under the flickering light.

Then, they move.

Rings glide effortlessly between their fingers, spinning, floating, defying gravity itself. The performance is mesmerizing, each motion precise, each flick of the wrist a silent story. You barely notice how the world around you seems to hush, as if the air itself is holding its breath.

And then, as quickly as it began, the dance ends. The rings vanish. The figure turns, and their masked gaze lands on you.

A pause.

Then, they beckon.

You hesitate, but something compels you forward. As you step closer, they extend a single ring toward you. Not as a trick. Not as a challenge. As an invitation.

"Show me what your hands remember," they murmur, voice soft, ageless.

The ring is cool in your palm. The crowd has faded. It’s just you and them now, in a space where time seems uncertain.

Will you take their hand and step into the dance?