The Grey of the Inner Eye : Witness of the Forgotten Rite

He stands alone, yet never apart.

This is a Tall Grey, but not the one from stories made to frighten or control. He is older than those distortions; older than distortion itself. His presence is ceremonial, not invasive. He does not step forward. He waits, in stillness that feels like a choice, not hesitation. He is here because you are ready to see him.

The ridges on his skull rise like ancient script, the geometry of memory etched into form. His robe carries the weight of intention, deep blue and violet, colors of passage and shadow work, fastened at the heart with gold-glimmered thread. A knot not to bind, but to mark: you have arrived.

His eyes, vast, reflecting, do not seek your fear. They open something older inside you. A recognition. A reckoning. As if through him, you are being quietly asked: What have you forgotten? What sacred rite have you abandoned in the rush to survive?

He does not speak. And yet you hear him.
Not in words, but in the ache behind your ribs. In the breath you suddenly remember to take.

This is not an encounter. This is a witnessing.
He is the keeper of what was left behind.
The rite no longer performed.
The vow whispered once and never again.

Now, standing before you, he does not reclaim it.
He returns it, but only if you are willing to hold it again.