The Pale Protocol
The ink smudged where your tear fell, blurring the date at the top of the page, but you did not wipe it away. You let it spread, a dark bruise blooming on the white paper, mirroring the ache in your chest as the carriage rattled away from the station. It was the autumn of 1914, the air in London thick with coal smoke and the metallic tang of impending war, but inside the cramped, windowless...
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