The Pale Protocol
The letter was written in ink that had the faint, iridescent sheen of a beetle’s wing, a color that seemed to shift between bruised purple and the deep, stagnant blue of a midnight pond. Thomas sat on the edge of his bed, the mattress springs groaning under the weight of his small, restless bones. Outside, the rain did not fall; it hovered, suspended in the air like a field of gray dust,...
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