The Pale Protocol
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, the envelope thick and cream-colored, smelling faintly of ozone and dried lavender. It was not addressed to me, or at least, not in the way one expects a letter to be addressed. The ink was a deep, bruised purple, and the handwriting was my own, yet the strokes were sharper, more deliberate, as if written by a hand that had learned to tremble and then forced it...
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