The Faded Chronicle
The stone crumbled under my fingers, a dry, papery disintegration that sent a cloud of grey dust into the autumn air of 1893, and as the dust settled, I saw the hollow space beneath where the boundary marker should have been solid, a void that seemed to breathe with a cold, wet exhalation that carried the scent of rot and old earth. I am Elias Thorne, a surveyor by trade and by desperate...
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