The Pale Protocol
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, smelling faintly of dried lavender and old ink, its seal broken by a jagged tear that looked less like a mistake and more like a wound. I found it on the kitchen table, beneath a dust sheet that my wife, Elara, had draped over the china cabinet three days prior, waiting for a time that would not come. I am writing this down because my hands are shaking, and if I...
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