Thin mist sits on the water at dawn, and a shape rises out of it the moment you go still enough to watch. Neptune, the part of you that dissolves hard edges and listens for the unseen, sets an easy sextile to your Part of Fortune, the spot your chart draws from Ascendant, Sun, and Moon by its day or night sect, where your life comes together with the least fuss. The dream will not surface for you alone. You quiet the noise, let the image come instead of chasing it. When you do, mercy and imagination drift toward the place that already fits you. No grace is being handed over. There is fog with a door cut in it, always yours to walk through.