The Pale Protocol
The letter lies on the mahogany desk, its ink still wet and glistening like a bruise that refuses to heal, and you hold the pen with a grip so tight your knuckles have turned the color of old bone, trembling not from the cold that seeps through the windowpanes but from the terrible, crushing weight of the words you know you must write to Eleanor, because you are the keeper of the house, the...
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