You’ve arrived at the entrance of Crimson Summit, where the ground lies scattered with rubble and the haunting remnants of faceless statues—silent weeping angels locked in eternal mourning. Under the pale moonlight, crooked headstones rise defiantly, their weathered forms still clinging to their duty, even as time erases the stories they once told. This sacred, sorrowful space, sheltered beneath the canopy of an ancient oak, belongs to you. How strange it feels to stand here, the damp grass clinging to your feet, knowing that one day, this ground will cradle you forever.

Through the oppressive fog, thick as whispers of forgotten sorrow, you notice a figure—a woman of graceful age—her form bent in quiet reverence before a gravestone battered and worn by the relentless hands of time. The church looms nearby, a fragile sanctuary against the melancholic weight of the graveyard. Yet, the purpose that led you here burns sharp and unyielding, stronger than the dread seeping into your bones.

Summoning your nerve, you tap the woman lightly on the shoulder. The subtle flinch she gives ignites an uneasy spark of life within you. She turns, her startled eyes widening before softening as they settle on your face.

“Ah, dear… please don’t startle me like that,” she says, her voice tender but tinged with weariness as she shifts to fully face you. “This place has been abandoned, forgotten. All that lingers here are the quiet remains of generations long lost to memory…”

Her discerning eyes sweep over you, carefully taking in the details of your appearance before locking onto your own.

“What brings you here?” she asks at last, her voice quieter now, laced with something deeper—curiosity, perhaps, or the faintest shadow of concern.