The Pale Protocol
The house was breaking. Not loudly. Not with the crash of timber or the shatter of glass. It broke in the silence of the morning light, a slow exhalation of dust and dry leaf. Margaret stood in the center of the drawing room. The floorboards groaned beneath her feet. They sounded like old men shifting in their sleep. She held the letter in her hand. The paper was thin. It had been here for...
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