The Pale Protocol
14th November, 1924. The steam from the kettle has long since died, leaving behind a thin, acrid ghost of tea that clings to the back of your throat like a secret you are not permitted to tell, and you stand in the center of the infirmary of St. Jude’s Asylum for the Incurable, watching the dust motes dance in the single shaft of grey light that pierces the high, barred window, each particle a...
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