Keep it.
Wenmaal has no moral. It does not teach or punish. It simply occurs , like a crack in a cup that makes the tea taste sweeter.
If you feel it coming—a stillness that isn’t empty, a shadow that isn’t dark—do not rush to name it. Light a single candle. Pour water from a pitcher into a bowl. Wait.
It is the grey hour when the frost on the window doesn’t melt, but listens . When the floorboards remember the weight of ancestors who never spoke above a whisper.
The world, for once, will not ask you to be useful.