Southeast Missouri, aboard the westbound train

September 23, 1871

The train cuts through Missouri like a blade, and still the landscape refuses to bleed. The trees stand too still. The air is too quiet. Something is wrong.

This morning I found a dead bird on the windowsill of the passenger car—its eyes missing, its wings folded neatly across its chest. No one else claimed to see it. When I returned with a porter, it had vanished. But beneath the window, I found a sliver of parchment tucked into the frame. It read:

“When the lanterns burn violet, descend.”

No signature. No symbol. But the ink smelled of sage and sulfur, and when I touched it, it warmed against my skin.

I’ve stopped sleeping. The mark on my palm throbs under moonlight like a second heartbeat. In the flicker of candlelight, it sometimes shifts—new lines forming as if something beneath the skin is trying to speak.

And tonight, for just a moment, the moon turned black.