The Pale Protocol
The fire started on a Tuesday. It was a small thing. A spark. It touched the dry thatch of the old mill. The smoke rose. It was black. Then it was grey. Then it was gone. The mill stood. It had always stood. It stood against the river. The river ran. The river did not stop. Thomas sat on the steps. He was old. His hands shook. He held a letter. The paper was thin. The ink was wet. He read it....
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