I’m escaping this place. I’ve spent the last day preparing, darting into crumbling buildings for any scrap of food. Off in the distance, I can hear buildings collapsing and see the clouds of dust that mark their graves.
I’m at the edge of town now. There’s a sign here, rusted through. “Now leaving” the town name long ago fell to rust flake. But below it, hope. Fiddlers Meadow, fifteen miles. I remember that place, from all those journals, the ultimate goal for those with escape in mind.
I know I’ve been trapped here for a while. I know everyone that has tried to leave has been stopped by this place. But I will not falter. I will keep walking until this town lets me go, I will walk on.
This will most likely be my last post here. I will break this cycle. Either I escape, or this place dies and takes me with it. I will not give in. I will not let myself go through this hell one more time.