You walk calmly out into the barren field. There's definitely something out there, but as you feel your Rage ready to course through you, the sense of being watched fades. You walk to the treeline, looking for evidence of a watcher, but you can't find any tracks in the snow and mud.
You've wasted enough time. You head into the barn, moving systematically now that the presence is gone. An hour passes in meticulous and fruitless investigation. The barn doesn't look like it was ever a workshop. That must have burned. Nonetheless, you climb a rickety ladder up into the cold, slimy filth of the rafters.
It's dark enough inside that you need to flick on your lighter. You drag a soggy hay bale away from a window, letting pale sunlight in. You resume your search until you spot a wet gleam. You reach out, hands clumsy in your gloves, and pull something white and sharp out of wood so soft it's the consistency of cornbread.
A photo. Badly stained, but you can still make out two smiling, sunburned white men in each other's arms. Judging from their physiques and hairlines, they're probably in their mid-twenties, but their full beards make them look older. The back says "P. Town '92."
Another step and your boot cracks through a board. You stuff the photo in your hoodie, drop back down onto the ground, and scan the treeline again.
Nothing out there, but the midday sky is dark, almost black. A storm is coming.
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