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Those buried in the ground… are the ones who will be found.
It is the story of how it's always been.
And how it always will be.
Toodalay!
Cheerful voices of Pottsfield rise and fall, and the dancers adorned in haystack gowns and plaid linens swing themselves around each other. Their bright orange pumpkins shiny with dewdrops. They stamp their feet, stamp their hands, and STAMP! STAMP STAMP! STAMP!.
Toodalay, toodafay! Welcome, welcome, let us play!
Enoch sways high above his citizens, watching dutifully over their newest townsfolk.
"I-I don't feel so good," Wirt murmurs, taking hold of Enoch's strings pulling him up. He climbs out from dirt, tasting none of it. Everything feels like Wirt fell asleep, his arms and legs, and his head, and doesn't wanna be shaken up out of bed for earlier morning breakfast.
"It will pass, my friend." Enoch nods his gigantic pumpkin-head. "You've been gone quite a long time since we last saw you," he rumbles.
"I…"
"But don't you worry now—you are home."
Wirt squints his eyes on his skeletal face, lifting a skeletal hand.
"I am?"
"Of course. You were far early last time. Welcome, welcome."
Gone is pain, gone is sorrow! Come, come, until it's tomorrow!
"Wirt!" Greg's voice muffles through a newly carved pumpkin shoved over his own skeletal head. He waves by the road leading to the barn.
Two small pumpkins cover Greg's feet.
"Greg!" Wirt cries out, partly relieved but mostly astounded.
"Last one there is a rotten egg, Wirt!"
A giggle escapes a mouth-hole.
Wirt determinedly yanks on his own pumpkin, hiking his overalls and running on after his little brother.
It is how it is.
And how it will always be.
Here we are is not the end! And, forevermore, you are my friend! Too-too-deeeelay!
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