The village slept under a shroud of mist. Roofs barely visible in the pre-dawn gloom.
Fifty years ago, the elders swore an oath never to speak of that night when stars shattered and the sky burned. It seemed like an omen, albeit one they couldn't tell if it was good or bad. So, they buried the truth beneath the old oak, along with the relics of a forgotten time. Later it became a holy place.
The place became a myth, it was told that travelers came and holy men would go missing.
Centuries past by. But the earth remembers what men forget.
Deep in the silence, the wind carried a mystery long forbidden. The stars flickered, as if waking from a long slumber. The story was never over—it was only waiting to be discovered.