Inside a canyon at nightfall, the last ambient light nearly gone. A single match flame held in two cupped hands — one of the Twins — the glow catching the wall’s carved petroglyphs: spirals, birds, old signal marks. The other Twin is barely visible behind, watching. Beyond the narrow canyon opening, the sky is not fully dark — an electric blue-gray, the hour just past the last breath of dusk. No stars yet. Just the match, the stone, and the petroglyphs lit briefly from below.
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