STOPHERE📍

  giphy.com My name is Alfred Harold Hill. I am a cartographer for the British Army, Highland Rangers, and XXV Company. And I am dying. I am writing this journal to preserve my identity and to let others know what happened and what we went through. I have no idea how long I can write, as only a few candles are left and the inkwell is half empty. It is November 12th of 1891, the year of our lord. Outside the log cabin, a snowstorm has roared for the past three days. There are four to five feet of snow all around, the passes and routes erased beneath the relentless snowfall. I have tried to escape the log cabin only three times, only to turn back, defeated by the snow. I am 24 years old, my rank is first Lieutenant and it seems like yesterday when we journeyed from the army camp at Dehradun, three months to this day, a Platoon of thirty-five men and with me, and I am the last one remaining, the others dead, or as the Bitak would say, ‘Lo sall Jo kumi haar Jeenu.’ disappeared into...