Meera, a young woman with expressive, wide eyes and a nervous smile, steps off a rusty bicycle, glancing warily at the tree. Her sari is a patchwork of soft browns and ochre, blending into the landscape, and thick black outlines exaggerate her tense posture. "Why does it feel like the air is watching me tonight?"

Old Man Ravi, keeper of stories, approaches Meera with a cautious step. His voice trembles, eyes exaggerated and darting. "Stay away from the banyan after sunset, child. It remembers those who disturb its roots."

Meera watches the tree, her curiosity mounting. Her dramatic expressions flicker between fear and defiance, eyes slightly exaggerated in the half-light. "If the stories are true, why has no one ever seen the spirit?"

A faint, hand-drawn glow pulses near the roots. Suddenly, a hunched figure materializes—The Banyan Spirit, its eyes impossibly wide, face contorted in silent sorrow, skin washed in muted greens and browns. "You seek what should not be known, Meera,"

"Why do you haunt this village? What binds you to this tree?" The spirit's eyes glisten with tears, their motion exaggerated, dripping into the roots. "I was wronged long ago. Only remembrance frees me; do not let my story fade in silence."

The elders listen, faces softening. As the story ends, a breeze stirs the banyan's leaves, hinting at peace. The muted tones of the village glow softly, and the hand-drawn world feels lighter, as if the spirit’s sorrow has finally lifted.