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Gather 'round, one and all, and stoke the fire high, for tonight I'll tell you the tale of Marrow Hollow—a town wrapped in silence, stitched together with strings, and bound by an ancient secret.

Long ago, beyond the whispering woods and the fog-laden hills, there nestled a town unlike any other. Marrow Hollow, they called it. But there was no calling, for in Marrow Hollow, words had vanished. Not stolen by thieves nor cursed by witches—no, they simply faded like breath on a cold morning. No laughter echoed, no lullabies soothed, only the soft sigh of wind and the creak of wooden marionettes.

The folk of Marrow Hollow weren’t broken by this loss. Oh no—they adapted, for humans are clever that way. They crafted puppets, not simple toys, mind you, but elaborate extensions of their very souls. Through these puppets, they spoke without sound. A tilt of the head, a flick of the wrist, shadows cast on walls told tales richer than words ever could. They danced, they loved, they argued—all through the silent poetry of puppetry.

But then came the stranger.

The tale says it was a dusky evening, lanterns flickering like fireflies, as the townsfolk gathered for "The Tale of the Lost Moon." Their puppets pirouetted in perfect silence until—crack!—a voice split the air.

“Hello,” the stranger said. Just one word, soft yet roaring like a storm after years of drought.

The townsfolk froze, eyes wide, hearts pounding. Some clutched their puppets tighter; others glanced about, unsure if they'd dreamed it. But the voice was real—warm, rich, and full of forgotten magic. The stranger spoke of distant lands and their journey, weaving stories with nothing but sound. It was a revelation.

Now, not everyone embraced this change. The oldest among them, Keeper Havil, performed an intense puppet show, revealing the hidden truth: long ago, words carried unbearable grief, a sorrow so vast it threatened to drown the town. So, the town sealed away their voices, burying pain beneath silence.

But the stranger’s voice wasn’t a curse—it was a key. As days passed, the townsfolk dared to mimic sounds, their voices shaky and raw, like babies learning to speak. They discovered something wondrous: words weren’t just vessels for sorrow—they held laughter, love, and healing.

So, Marrow Hollow found its balance. Words wove through the air while puppets danced in the firelight. Silence remained sacred, but voices became cherished echoes of the heart.

And that, my dear listeners, is the legend of Marrow Hollow—where silence and speech learned to live hand in hand, and every story found its voice.