Pai João didn't answer. He dripped cachaça onto the drawing. The liquid didn't spread randomly; it moved along the chalk lines, turning the dry risk into a luminous river of energy. The air grew heavy.
"Who calls?" the spirit asked, voice like grinding iron. ponto riscado umbanda
"The ponto is a door," he finally said. "You see lines. The spirit sees a road." Pai João didn't answer