Listen carefully. Beyond the northern ridge lies a forest older than any tale we tell. Its roots remember every step taken, every burden dropped, every truth left unspoken. People here call it Wraithwood not for ghosts, but because nothing inside it ever truly disappears. The forest keeps what the world forgets. It balances what we try to leave behind. We live beside it, though none of us claim to understand it Some say the trees speak underground. Some say the wolves carry their decisions. And some have seen people walk in with sorrow in their bones… and return different. If they return at all. These songs tell their stories the lost, the changed, the claimed. So hear me well: if you choose to follow them, do it with respect. Wraithwood does not forget a name. And tonight… it is awake.
