I never thought that after returning to my hometown, I would be targeted by those buried things again. The village is built on the mountain, and the water flows around the old ancestral hall. The rules left by the ancestors have long been forgotten by no one, but they are still running in the dark. Someone knocks on the door at night, but leaves no footprints; the well water makes no sound without the wind; the sealed surname adds a new page to the family tree on its own.
They said it was just superstition.
Until I discovered that some "customs" are not for praying, but to delay the arrival of something.
This is not a story about revenge, nor is it simply about seeing a ghost.
It is about blood, land, name, and whether a person has the right to refuse to inherit everything that has been arranged for him.
When taboos are broken, folklore ceases to be a legend.
And I have been written into it.
