There is an hour the old people called grey, when the night has loosened its grip but the sun has not yet claimed the sky. In that seam between the two, smoke walks where it wills.
This rite reaches into the corners a house forgets — the stale breath of long nights, the unease that pools in still rooms, the residue of every visitor who left something behind. Smoke is the oldest cleanser, older even than salt, and at dawn it drives the dark out through the doors ahead of the coming light.
The Working
- Rise while the windows are still grey and light the incense from a single flame.
- Set the glowing bundle in a shallow bowl and let the smoke gather and lift.
- Ring the bell once at the heart of the house to wake the sleeping air.
- Carry the bowl to every doorway and sill, wafting the smoke across each opening and out.
- At the last door, before the sun crests, speak the incantation into the smoke.
- Ring the bell a final time, and set the bundle down to burn itself to ash.
The Incantation
Grey the hour, thin the veil,
smoke go where the shadows dwell.
Through each door and past each sill,
take the stale, the sour, the ill.
Sun is rising, night is done,
out you go before the sun.
The working seals as the last ember dies in the bowl, and releases when the first full sunlight falls across a cleared and quiet house.