There exists a path, less traveled and seldom spoken of, etched in whispers and murmured lullabies. We call it the "Tradition Trail," a circuitous route winding through the byways of custom, leading nowhere yet everywhere. It is said that following this path grants one the understanding of the ancient art of sitting still whilst pretending to be busy.
Every year, as the leaves turn to the color of forgotten resolutions, we gather at the Crossroads of Irony—a place marked with no signs and a strict prohibition against signs—where participants must navigate by intuition and the occasional vague memory.
Among the festivities, a key event is the Silent Symphony, where no music is played, yet the harmony of unspoken rules can be felt in the air, thick and palatable. Alas, no map can chart this symphony, for its notes are invisible and its rhythm slow, much like a bureaucrat on a Friday afternoon.
To explore further, one might venture to the repository of Unsought Gifts or consult the Un-Guide to Guided Tours.