The Pale Altar

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2026-08-18 14:38:26 -

The Pale Altar

You dream of white. Not the white of snow, which is cold and clean, but the white of flour. Thick. Cloudy. It fills your lungs. You wake in the break room. The air tastes of stale coffee and bleach. The clock on the wall ticks. Tick. Tick. Tick. You are Thomas. You work in the archive. You file papers. You index documents. You are a gear. A small, rusted gear in a large machine. Your supervisor...

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