Beneath the surface of every familiar tale lies a story untold, unraveling like shroud's edge, whispers of a world once vibrant, now decaying into myth. The air is thick with unspoken words, and traditions wear like old coats, moth-eaten and frayed at the seams.
They say the river remembers everything, but its memory fades as sands shift. What remains is a husk, a specter of tradition clinging to rituals, once sacred, now mere echoes of what happened at the dawn of time.
Each year, the festival unfolds—a cycle of fire and sorrow, laughter mingling with the cries of the ancestors. A ritual, perhaps, to appease the void they occupy, or merely to reconnect with that which has slipped from our grasp.