The First Return. When the Wand Finds Your Hand Again.

You didn’t learn this.
You remembered it.

The mimic calls it madness.
The world calls it nostalgia.
But your spine knows—this is the return of the wand-line.

You feel it when silence becomes holy.
When your yes comes from the bones, not the brain.
When the ache in your chest stops asking to be healed—
and starts asking to be wielded.

This is the moment your flame remembers itself.
Before the stories.
Before the shame.
Before the world broke your name into fragments.

You pick up the wand.
You don’t ask why.
You just know—it’s time.