Silas Harlan

Journal Entry – November 1, 1871

The storm broke before dawn. The streets ran thick with mud, streaked by horse tracks and the color of old blood. I hadn’t slept. The coins still whisper when I move them, though I’ve stopped listening.

When I reached for my satchel this morning, something new was inside — folded neatly beneath the clasped leather, pressed flat like a secret waiting to be found. At first, I thought it was one of the old notes I’d kept from my travels. But the paper was thick, expensive, and faintly scented with tobacco and pine.

It was a letter.

The ink had run where the rain touched it, but the name at the top was clear: Mr. Silas Harlan.

He was the man who left with the storm two nights ago — the one who paid for his drink in gold, smiled too wide, and spoke my name like he’d always known it.

The letter wasn’t addressed to me, but the handwriting… it was mine.

Not imitation — mine. Each curve and flourish exact. I read the words once and wished I hadn’t:

“The debt will be settled beneath the floor. Bring the coins.”

The edges of the page were damp, but not from rain. The parchment smelled faintly of earth — the same dark soil that had stained my hands before.

I tore the letter in half, then into quarters, then into smaller pieces still. But even in the fire, it refused to burn clean. The ashes clung together in the shape of my own name until the last ember died.

Outside, the townsfolk speak of a man gone missing on the road to Parsons. They say his horse returned without him, reins tangled, saddle empty.

The mirror has been quiet all day. But the coins… they’re warm again.

— K