21 Mae, 1809 BD

I suppose if this diary was mine I should continue to scribe my thoughts; perhaps it will help to regather my memories. If not then what does it matter?

What words had been written are now as fragmented and scorched as my mind; the flames which seem to have engulfed this cabin have taken a heavy price to spare my life; was it worth it?

I have two things left. The half-charred remains of this journal, the first. The Second a name; my name perhaps? Thaddeus Strange. An unusual name, for sure, but it seems to sit well on my tongue as I speak it, so I suppose it is mine.