An envelope crafted from sterile parchment and even plainer white paper within shows obvious and careless signs of having been tampered with. The seal of a lavender sprig is visibly destroyed, clearly having been opened and resealed with a hot, flat instrument that robbed the letter of any poetry. "Alice, The initial introduction to the Sanatorium has been. . . Bleak, to say the least. The journey over, I held out hope that Leonard might yet come. Every step, I could fee

A small sprig of lavender lay pressed into the wax seal on the letter. The ink of some of the words has been smeared and blotted dry after being dampened with droplets. "Leonard, My Love, I have miss you terribly. Last we spoke, you mentioned that you had found work on one of those ships that can ride the wind like waves. I had every intention of being patient and minding myself until your return, but terrible news have befallen me..."

A letter made of parchment and a hushed touch of purple ink is carefully tucked in an envelope. Within the envelope is a single dried daffodil, a gift to its intended. "Alice, I cannot fathom it. Father has sent for a carriage to be here by evening. He has told the servants to begin collecting some of my gowns, toiletries, and a few spools of thread so I might continue my needlework. What good will needlework do me from within the asylum?..."

A letter written in a beautiful script and perfumed with the scent of basil and lavender from the few botanicals left tucked within the envelope.

This letter was pinned to the square of New Ashen by unseen hands. It is worn, tattered, but boldly displayed until a guard rips it down and tosses it to the side. "Mother, Dearest Mother, If this letter reaches you... Then it probably means I never made it home despite my best efforts."

On the edge of town, cast aside by the winds until it met the nook of a tree lays a single page. The script is written with haste. "Mother, I have uncovered what the captain is doing. "

Tucked beneath a rock on the edges of New Ashen, near the abandoned cathedral a tattered, nearly burnt letter sits in an empty pew. "Mother, I wish I had never joined the men of the Outlook. "

A crumbled up letter, smudged at the edges with soot lay discarded outside of the guard barracks within New Ashen. "Mother, Routines and events around the Outlook are... Different now. Orders only come late at night or the early hours before dawn now. Hushed directions whispered between the captain and the quartermaster that seem to distance himself from myself and my comrades when we get brief respite around the fire..."

"Mother, Something happened tonight. Something that is sitting poorly with me as the hours wind on..."

They posted me to the northern watchroad just outside of the Outlook. It is not grand work, but at least it’s honest. Better than...

I found Saelith. She stood at the heart of the clearing past trees that had become contorted by the dark. Saelith was barefoot upon...

There is still no sign of Saelith. Not the sound of her footsteps, nor the warmth of her voice. I followed her prints until they staggered, one step sinking deep into the black soil as if she lost her stride, but then a few paces further the shapes become... Wrong.

Feathers lie scattered, frozen within the skies forever locked in a motionless descent. Then, deeper still, I found a kilmei...

Saelith has gone. Not a foot print, nor signs of struggle within our homestead. There was only a thin trail of frost leading toward...

She no longer hums while she weaves. Her yellow eyes are fixed on her work with an unmoving stillness.

A fragment of parchment was recovered from the Ancestor's Altar. The paper is brittle, handwriting careful to be clear, but obviously strained by time. "The Ancestors no longer answers prayer. The bells frost over before they can ring. When struck or shaken they sway, but not a sound follows no matter how vigorous. Somehow, the chime lingers somewhere else beyond our senses. We held vigil through the night, thinking the quiet was perhaps a test sent upon us. But the frost gat

This letter was found in a cottage in a state of disarray on the edge of Ragne. The writer was vacant from the property when searched. "Mother, You told me the old stories were meant to keep little children from wandering too far into Blackwood Grove in winter. I believed you back then. But I saw it last night, by the graves beyond the silver birches. The frost had already taken the stones, turning the names dull and unreadable. I tried to brush it away, but my fingers burned

I wasn’t going to say anything, because I don’t want people thinking I’m drunk or grieving or soft in the head. But the ice is wrong. It crept up the alley behind the tannery last night. It did not happen overnight, as I watched it do it. It slid along the stones like creeping breath across a mirror. No sound. No wind. Just there, and then stretching further yet, as if reaching to snuff out the warmth from the fire. I thought I saw someone standing at the end of the lane. Tal

To whoever tends this shrine next, I leave this as record, do not put your faith in the old prayers. For three mornings now the grey frost has returned to the low fields before dawn. It does not sparkle. It lies flat, like ash pressed into the grass. Where it settles, the soil hardens and cracks as if drained of warmth entirely, though no true cold follows. The kilmei refused to cross it. Even when driven, they balked and cried until pulled away. One knelt frozen to place, st

A journal page was found caught by the wind, it had clearly been torn cleanly down the spine. Elegant, but shaky handwriting denotes the following message. "I thought the stories were just nerves about the season turning, or perhaps fear of famine that often returns this time of year. Then last night, when the mists rolled in just off the ridge, the frost on my window moved. It had not melted. Not fading. No. Moved. Patterns shifting like breath on glass, forming a shape I al