Cherryvale, Kansas

Journal Entry – October 6, 1871

The chill in the air carries the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves; a hint of smoke wafts from distant chimneys, mingling with the acrid tang of unpolished iron. The skies are muted, a heavy blanket of gray pressing down, as if the world itself anticipates the darker days to come. A rustle of skirts brushes past me on the damp, dirt street; it is Abigail, her curious gaze flicking between the ground and the horizon, searching for something just beyond reach.

The townsfolk gather with hushed voices, their laughter brittle under the weight of uncertainty; one can feel the threads of unease woven into their conversations, as if the very fabric of Cherryvale trembles with untold stories. I observe the sway of their postures—an involuntary shiver runs through the group when the wind howls, like the foreboding whisper of ghosts long forgotten. There is something entrancing in their fears, a certain spell that binds them together, yet I remain apart, savoring the distance.

Tonight, the moon shall rise swollen and luminous, casting eerie shadows that dance with the fleeting dusk. I find myself drawn to the margins of the gathering, where secrets linger like the musty pages of an ancient tome, waiting to be unfurled. Abigail’s curiosity gnaws at her, though she lacks the resolve to breach the invisible barrier that separates our worlds; it pleases me to know she senses the gravity of it all, tethering her to an uncertainty that echoes in the silence.

The hour grows late; the shadows lengthen, and still, the veil between us waits, taut and unyielding.