Towns are like people. Old ones often have secrets to hide. Step carefully across the threshold; the town is already watching, and it remembers every single face that wanders into its mist.

You pay for what you get, you own what you pay for, and sooner or later whatever you own comes back home to you. The census still claims there are thirty thousand souls in this coastal trap, though the dark ocean constantly threatens to pull more down into its depths.

Fiction is the truth inside the lie. And the truth of this fiction is simple enough: the magic exists. Leave your history in these files, because once you cross the border, you belong entirely to the narrative.

We all float down here. And when you're down here with us, you'll float, too. The broken signal reaches far beyond the fog, a desperate radio broadcast calling out to other lonely souls stranded in the void.