The Pale Protocol
The letter is written in ink that has dried to the color of dried blood, a deep, arterial maroon that stains the fiber of the heavy cream paper. You hold it in your left hand, the one that still trembles, while your right hand rests on the edge of the stone table. The wind is howling outside, a low, mournful moan that rattles the shutters of the cottage, but inside, the silence is so thick you...
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