ㅤㅤㅤㅤ／(‘CHAPEL OF WITHERED SAINTS.. 1731.) May the luminance emitted by the conical waxen entities atop your celebratory confection resonate with the fervor of a Silent Hill shadow.
In the manner the Elders weave their hexes with patient malice, I beseech the fates that your day be a tapestry of strange delight and whispered fortune, each thread humming with the pulse of long-forgotten triumphs.
May your birthday unfold within a warded circle, untouched by famine or ill wind, where the only thing that multiplies is mirth, and the laughter echoes longer than the bells of the forsaken chapel.