Where golden pumpkins crowd the lane, and laughter dances through the grain, we found a town beneath the trees that smiled too sweetly in the breeze. A harvest moon above the square, warm lanterns swinging everywhere. They welcomed strangers, hand in hand, with crooked smiles and buried plans. The fiddles played, the cider flowed, while shadows gathered by the road. Greg laughed beneath the harvest glow; Wirt watched the faces come and go. Then beneath the soil, beneath the stone, something stirred that wasn't grown. The cheerful song began to sound like restless voices underground. Dance where the dead leaves twist and turn, beneath the lanterns' amber burn. Raise every cup and sing along, while something buried hums the song. Oh, Pottsfield, your fields conceal the things that never truly heal. We came as travelers passing through— but the harvest had a place for two. A wooden gate, a field of bone, a town that called the grave its home. The faces blurred beneath the light; were they the living—or the night? The pumpkins grinned with hollow eyes, while autumn whispered its goodbyes. And when the earth began to breathe, we felt the roots beneath our feet. BENEATH THE HARVEST— THEY WAIT! BENEATH THE EARTH— THEY WAKE! THE FIELD REMEMBERS EVERY NAME! Dance where the dead leaves twist and turn, beneath the lanterns' amber burn. Sing while the final embers glow— there are some things we shouldn't know. Oh, Pottsfield, your fields conceal a truth the living cannot feel. The music fades, the night draws near... and every grave can hear. The lanterns sway... The fiddles cease... The harvest sleeps... beneath the leaves.
0/500