Under the crescent moon, the bayou breathes, its dark waters humming with life just below the surface. Cypress trees bend, dripping with moss like long-forgotten secrets. The priest stands at the edge of the water, the damp air clinging to his skin, smelling of earth and decay, as if the whole world is holding its breath.

He places a single candle on the mossy stone, its flame flickering in the heavy air, casting ghostly shadows that dance in rhythm with the cicadas’ steady hum. In his hands, a small coin glints—a token of fortune, soon to be bound to the spirits of both sky and swamp. The priest whispers, the words slipping into the night like a prayer: a mix of Creole and ancient tongues, the language forgotten by most but understood by those who listen closely to the wind.

The candle flame grows steady. The priest reaches into his pocket, producing a small piece of parchment, crumpled at the edges, the ink still drying from the weight of his intention. The smell of cigar smoke, sweet and rich, rises with each exhale as he waves the smoke over the offering, a thick mist that curls and disappears into the air like lost dreams.

He speaks the name of St. Expedite—quietly at first, then louder, until the name feels like it’s vibrating the very ground beneath him. The offering is placed on the stone, and with a single flick, the coin is tossed into the murky water, where it disappears with a soft plop. In the stillness that follows, the bayou waits.

The priest stands, his chest rising and falling with the breath of the swamp. His voice, rough and cracked like the bark of the cypress, cuts through the silence: “Bring me fortune, as I have given you my word.”

The flame sputters out, leaving the priest alone with the smell of wax and smoke, the soft rustling of the wind weaving through the trees. The spirits have heard. The night shifts. The bayou sighs, and the spell is cast.