The Pale Protocol
The envelope was thick, cream-colored, and smelled faintly of the cedar shavings from the workshop floor. You held it in your hands, the weight of it a physical anchor against the chill of the room, while the clock on the mantelpiece ticked with a rhythmic, indifferent precision. Outside, the November rain lashed against the single, grime-streaked window of the archive office, blurring the...
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