Not every sorrow has a name. Some are too small to be called grief, too strange to be called sadness. The ache for a place you have never known. The loneliness felt among friends. The sudden certainty that a moment will become a memory while you are still living it.

Those feelings do not disappear simply because they go unspoken.

They gather here.

Over countless ages, every unnamed sorrow has left some trace in the Valley, settling into its mountains, flowers and endless fields.

Travelers sometimes arrive carrying feelings they believed were theirs alone, only to discover that someone, somewhere, has felt exactly the same thing.

Perhaps that is the strange mercy of the Valley:
No sorrow belongs to only one person.