In North Carolina, the land folds and falls from the misty peaks of the Smokies to the slow, heavy plains of the Piedmont and down to the broken shores of the Outer Banks. Ghost stories are stitched into every hollow, every battlefield, every crumbling farmhouse sinking into red clay and salt.
In the mountains, the trees whisper warnings too old for words. In the Piedmont, the fields lie heavy under forgotten graves and the ruins of lives built and lost. And along the coast, the wrecks of phantom ships rot in the shallow waters, their dead still searching for land they will never reach.
Here, the past drags at your heels. The rivers remember every sorrow. The wind knows every name. In North Carolina, time does not pass — it piles up, layer by heavy layer, until the living and the dead walk side by side, and the land swallows them both without a sound.