“Welcome to** Elk Hollow**—*where the magnolias bloom year-round, and nothing stays buried for long.*” On the surface, it’s all *sweet tea on porches and church bells* on Sunday, **but look closer and you’ll see the cracks: names etched into windowpanes, a well that never runs dry, and townsfolk who change the subject just a little too quickly. **“Beneath the bright skies and whitewashed walls, the truth curls like smoke.” Long ago, a pact was made—**The Hollow Agreement**—an old deal sealed in red clay and whispered about in back pews. **Every few decades, something must be given: **a name, a memory… a life. Now, the cycle is turning again. *The tea has soured, the bells ring when they shouldn’t,* and something is waking beneath the soil—something that remembers. *“The light’s too bright to hide anything for long—not the sins, not the sinners.”*