The Pale Protocol
The letter arrived on a Tuesday. It was thick. Cream-colored. Sealed with black wax. You opened it with trembling hands. The ink was dry. The script was precise. It was your own handwriting. You froze. The room was cold. The fire had died to embers. Outside, the wind screamed across the moor. Inside, the silence was heavy. You read the first line. I have failed the Protocol. Your heart...
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