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Date, unknown
The riverbank mud clung to my boots as I crossed toward the crooked hut. Smoke threaded from the chimney in thin, wavering lines, as if unsure whether it wished to rise or return to the earth. I felt the Moon’s pull weakening, an evening feeling I haven’t felt in months, or has it been years?
About the journal
Dive deeper into the songs by The Gray Phantom. Here, the fragments are gathered. Entries, letters, and whispers that reveal what lingers beneath each song. Follow the trail, and you may begin to see how the pieces fit together.
This is where the story unfolds, one page at a time.