Sayantan Bhattacharya The village of Greystone sat on the edge of the moorlands, where the sky always seemed a shade too gray and the winds carried whispers only the old dared to interpret. People rarely left, and even fewer arrived. Those who did often left soon—troubled, changed, or not at all. At the heart of the village stood the remnants of St. Cyprian’s Church, a crumbling stone relic with no roof and a bell tower that cast long shadows over the graves below. The bell had not rung in decades, not since the fire in 1893. But every year, on…