The Pale Protocol
The letter sits on the desk, its envelope unsealed, the wax broken with a carelessness that belies the gravity of its contents. You are alone in the study, the room a cube of shadow and dust motes dancing in the single beam of afternoon light that cuts through the high, leaded window. The air is still, thick with the scent of old paper and the metallic tang of the iron stove that has long since...
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