The night was well past its zenith when Alexander finally forced himself to look at the scrap of paper from the old man’s pocket. As starlight splashed across it, it seemed to exude a malevolence of its own, one that threatened to taint his skin.
He only hesitated once before his patience waned and he unfolded it with a curse.
There was no reason to suspect anything of it, anyway. In all likelihood it was nothing more than a sentimental keepsake that the old man had picked up on his travels, or perhaps a cherished letter from before the End—
But it was neither. Before he had even finished unfolding the sheet, he recognised the handwriting upon the page.
He stared, open-mouthed, while a pigeon hooted outside the open window.