The Pale Protocol
The letter lay open on the mahogany desk, its edges curling slightly in the dry, heated air of the study, and I held my pen in a hand that trembled not from cold but from the sheer, crushing weight of a memory that had refused to remain buried for thirty years. I am writing this because the end is near, not the end of my life, which I have long since ceased to fear, but the end of the silence...
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