The Pale Protocol
The ink is wet. It dries too fast. Elara presses the nib against the parchment. The scratch is loud. She writes. The room is a box. Brick walls. High ceilings. The air tastes of rust and old paper. She is in the Archive. The lower level. The place where the heat rises from the engines below. The steam pipes groan. They vibrate against her ribs. She is not a ghost. She is a woman. Or she was....
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