Welcome to Morrowleaf
Morrowleaf is a small, lush village nestled at the edge of a silted harbor. It was never a place of power or wealth, but one of reflection, stories, and quiet encounters. Travelers once came here to pause, to exchange insight, and to honor the rhythm of seasons and memory.
The harbor served as a threshold — not to somewhere else, but inward. It held logbooks, relics, and echoes of lives lived slowly. Everything in Morrowleaf spoke of connection between the ancient and the personal.
As the world outside rushed forward, the village softened into quiet. Fewer travelers came. The rituals that once connected people faded into habit. Yet Morrowleaf did not break. It waited.
In his final years, your grandfather, a disciplined and reserved figure, tended the land and tried to keep the village’s deeper pulse alive. His memory began to fray, but the soil still knew his footsteps.
When you heard of his passing, something called you home. You return not into ruins, but into something sleeping. The farm, the village, and its people — all waiting, patiently, for someone to listen again.