You stand in an old graveyard, surrounded by ancient trees swaying in the wind. Moss-covered graves stretch in neat rows, each holding a silent story. Birds sing a melancholic tune, blending with the rustling leaves. The wind howls, whispering secrets, as clouds drift above. Despite the eerie beauty, something feels off. In the farthest corner, hidden in the shadows, Pickle Cheeky lurks—watching, waiting.
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