A ceremonial mask honoring the Witches’ New Year stands as a threshold between seasons, poised at the hush where autumn exhales into winter. Adorned with dried harvest remnants—wheat husks, seed pods, and curling vines—it carries the memory of abundance now surrendered to frost. Dark florals bloom across its surface like night gardens, lush and secretive, while embered gold leaf flickers along its contours, suggesting firelight in encroaching darkness. The expression is neither mournful nor celebratory, but reverent—aware that every ending composts the beginning. It marks the sacred turning, where ancestral whispers gather, and quiet magic roots itself beneath winter’s stillness.