You approach the antique radio in front of the broken window. In the darkness of the house it looks forlorn, longing for the days in which it entertained a happier household. There’s a partially burned piece of parchment on top of the radio.
You carefully position your face close to the window and peer out into the stormy darkness. There is nothing there. As your breath fogs the window, a message appears:
“The bloodhound sniffs a trail gone cold, Where fathers were in times of old.”