The Pale Protocol
The fog did not lift. It settled. It came in thick rolls of grey wool, smelling of wet stone and old iron. It swallowed the village of Oakhaven whole. It swallowed the names of the streets. It swallowed the faces of the people who walked there. Silas Vane wrote the date in the margin of his ledger. October the fourth. He wrote it twice. Once for the record. Once for the fear. He was a man who...
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