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  A little over a year has passed since my last entry. I had intended never to write in this cursed journal again, believing that sealing it away would help me forget the horrors it contained. Yet, as I was going through my things in the study, I stumbled upon it—forgotten in a drawer, hidden beneath layers of papers, yet still there, waiting. The moment I saw it, I felt an undeniable pull, as though the journal itself demanded one final entry before I consigned it to oblivion. So, here I am, compelled to put pen to paper once more, if only to summarize the events that transpired after I escaped from the Graylands.

  After it became clear that there was no hope of rescuing the others, those of us who remained made the grim decision to leave the Graylands behind and begin the long journey back to where it had all started—Gibber’s estate. The weight of the loss hung heavy in the air, but there was nothing more we could do. The cable had been severed, and the others were lost to that cursed place.

  When we finally returned, the sight of Gibber’s sprawling estate, with its manicured gardens and towering mansion, felt strangely out of place, almost dreamlike after the bleakness of the Graylands. The estate’s opulence seemed obscene in contrast to the horrors I had experienced. Yet, as we approached, it became clear that nothing had changed in Gibber’s world. He was the same opportunistic man as always.

  The moment he laid eyes on me, his face twisted into something between shock and revulsion. I must have been a ghastly sight—my skin still a sickly, ashen gray from the Graylands’ touch, my eyes hollow from exhaustion, and the weight of all I had seen. For a brief moment, I thought I saw a flicker of concern in his eyes, a human reaction to the horror of what had happened to us. But it was fleeting. Gibber was a man driven by self-interest, and that impulse quickly overwhelmed any sympathy he might have had.

  His gaze shifted from my face to the contents of my pack—the gray flowers I had gathered from the mysterious lake, still vibrant in their dull, lifeless hues. It was as if the very sight of them made him salivate, his eyes lighting up with a glimmer of avarice. He hardly seemed to care about the ordeal I had endured or the fate of those who had been lost. All he saw were the rare and valuable specimens I had brought back. In his eyes, I was not a survivor returning from the brink of madness—I was a successful investment, something to be exploited.

  He pushed aside any lingering thoughts of my well-being, his focus narrowing on the flowers. His fingers twitched with anticipation as he examined them, his mouth almost visibly watering as he considered the life-extending potions that might come from these strange, colorless blooms.

  I stood there, numb, watching him drool over the very things that had nearly driven me to madness. His greed was palpable, and his excitement was almost grotesque. It was a stark reminder of the world I had returned to—a world just as indifferent and cold as the Graylands, but in a different way. Where the Graylands stripped away your sense of self with its gray void, men like Gibber did the same, but with the glint of coin in their eyes.

  I felt a strange sense of detachment as he prattled on about how the flowers could be analyzed, sold to collectors, and the fortune it would bring us. A single flower was enough to leave me extraordinarily wealthy, and I had managed to bring back forty flowers.

  But at that moment, standing before Gibber and his insatiable greed, I realized that even though I had escaped the Graylands, it had not truly left me. The gray had seeped into my very soul, and no amount of wealth could ever change that. Gibber, for all his riches and ambitions, could not understand the price I had paid to return.

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  I handed over every last one of the gray flowers I had collected, each petal a haunting reminder of the nightmare I had survived. Gibber, practically salivating over his newfound treasure, eagerly began the process of transferring a large sum of money into my account. His face beamed with the satisfaction of a man who had just struck gold, while I stood there, hollow and detached from the whole exchange. It felt meaningless to me—those flowers, that money—none of it could erase the horrors I had seen or bring back the people who had been lost.

  Within the first few days of receiving the money, I knew I couldn’t keep it all. So, I gave more than half of it away without hesitation. The bulk of the funds went to the families of the caravan members—the ones who had accompanied me on that ill-fated journey and who had placed their trust in me.

  I gave an even larger portion to the families of those who had never made it out of the Graylands, the ones whose names would forever be whispered in sorrow and uncertainty. I owed them that much, at the very least. While their loved ones would never return, the money was my way of acknowledging the price they had paid—a price that went far beyond anything that could be measured in currency.

  The remainder of the money went toward my own treatments, as I desperately needed help managing the lingering effects of my exposure to the Graylands. The graying had taken a toll on both my body and mind, in ways I was only beginning to understand. I sought out every expert I could find—doctors, psychologists, even obscure scholars who specialized in rare afflictions.

  A year into my treatment, I can cautiously say that some measure of normalcy has returned. The color in my skin has slowly been restored. The intense bouts of dissociation that once haunted me day and night have lessened, though they still linger at the edges of my mind, like shadows waiting to creep back in. I’ve learned to manage the constant feeling of being disconnected from reality, but it’s a slow, agonizing process. Some days, it feels as though I’ve made progress; other days, the Graylands still seem to stretch before me, endless and inescapable.

  I do experience panic attacks from time to time, especially when the sky grows overcast. The oppressive, muted gray of those clouds brings me right back to the Graylands, to that suffocating feeling of being trapped in a world drained of life and color. On those days, I’ve learned to take precautions. I stay inside, make sure all the blinds are drawn, and avoid any glimpse of the sky. Even the faintest touch of gray in the clouds can send me spiraling into a state of dread.

  And then, there are the dreams. Every night, without fail, I find myself once again wandering through those desolate, gray hills—an endless, barren landscape. It's as though I’m still wandering through the Graylands. I wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding. It’s always the same, night after night. I’ve tried everything, but nothing stops the nightmares. The only relief I’ve found is in a cocktail of drugs that prevents me from dreaming altogether. It’s not a perfect solution, but at least I wake up to silence instead of terror.

  The shadow men, though... they're still here. Watching. Even as I write this, I can see one through the window, just standing there, motionless, those two dull gray dots for eyes staring at me. I know I should be terrified—I was at first—but now? I’ve gotten used to them. Their presence has become almost routine, a constant companion that no longer sends shivers down my spine. They don’t bother me, really. They just watch. Always watching.

  My doctor insists they aren’t real. He tells me they’re figments of my imagination, lingering effects of the graying. He’s put me on an experimental treatment, hoping the new drugs will help me stop seeing them. I nod along to his explanations, but a part of me wonders: What if they are real? What if the Graylands left more than just scars on my mind and body?

  While I can’t claim to be fully healed—perhaps I never will be—there is a flicker of hope now, however faint. I’ve come to realize that whatever happened to me in that desolate place may never fully be undone, but I can at least learn to live with it. Maybe, in time, I’ll be able to truly move forward. Until then, I’ll keep seeking answers, and with each passing day, I’ll try to put just a little more distance between myself and the color gray.