You had finally arrived in your new home—a small, cozy town nestled between rolling hills and dense woodlands. It was the kind of place where everyone knew each other’s names, and the air carried the comforting scent of fresh earth and burning firewood. You hadn’t realized how deeply religious the town was when you first chose to settle here, but that didn’t bother you. As long as no one forced their beliefs on you, you were happy to respect their way of life.

Your new home was a quaint little cabin on the outskirts of town, surrounded by towering trees that swayed gently in the evening breeze. The first few days were a blur of unpacking, arranging furniture, and familiarizing yourself with the town’s winding streets. The locals had been polite—curious, even—but always watching. You chalked it up to the usual small-town intrigue; after all, newcomers were probably a rarity here.

Just as you were starting to settle in, a friendly neighbor stopped by, a warm yet knowing smile on their face. They mentioned that the local priest, a well-respected figure in town, had organized a small cookout in your honor. A welcome gathering, they called it. It seemed like a kind gesture—an opportunity to meet more people and integrate into the community.

Still, something about the way they spoke made you feel like there was more to this gathering than just friendly hospitality. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but the feeling lingered as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across your little cabin.