The Pale Path
The pill is white. It is small. It sits in your palm like a pearl from a dead sea. You have been holding it for three hours. Your hand trembles. You do not move. The room is cold. The air smells of dust and old paper. You are in the Hall of Records. It is not a palace. It is a vault. The stone is gray. The light is dim. You are a soldier. You wear the uniform of the State. The fabric is rough....
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