The Pale Protocol
The ink on the page was still wet, a dark, viscous smear that refused to dry, and Margaret stood before the mirror in the small, damp cabin, watching her own reflection blur into the fogged glass. She was writing the letter again. She had been writing it for three days, erasing the same sentence, rewriting the same apology, scratching out the name of the boy until the paper tore, then taping it...
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