Logged by a bookkeeper who believed in buoyancy, someone wrote, ‘these nuts are a harbor for names.’ Ignore them now and risk generational regret later. Nuts will rise, and with them, the tide of those who held. A tingling begins in the palm and climbs the forearm—permission to believe. The left nut sits slightly higher, a small asymmetry that tilts fate. NUTS are inevitable. What began as rumor hardened into ritual.
