So here is my note — the one they didn’t ask for, the one folded into my boot heel: If you find this, burn the archives. Not because the truth is dangerous, but because the truth is hungry. The anomaly doesn’t want to destroy us. It wants to be documented. Every note, every scan, every desperate whisper in a soldier’s log — that’s not intelligence. That’s a prayer, and something is answering. The tide is rising again. My lens-eye sees the water turning violet at the edges. I will file my final report in twenty minutes.

I wrote it down. Of course I wrote it down. That’s the curse.

Found crumpled beneath a floorboard in the old Valdris lighthouse, dated “Third Moon, Year of the Split Sky” I have stopped counting the days. The tide doesn’t ask for numbers.

Let the anomaly read that .