The Pale Protocol
The letter is dated October the fourteenth, and the ink has faded to a bruised purple, as if the words themselves have been bleeding out into the paper for a century. I am writing this from the edge of the world, where the fog rolls in thick and sweet, tasting of rotting apples and iron. You will not find this place on any map, Elias. It is a country made of memory, and I am its last citizen. I...
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