The Pale Protocol
The rain has been falling since before you woke, a grey and relentless curtain that blurs the edge of the moor until the land and the sky seem to have finally agreed to merge, and you sit there in the cold, damp carriage of the train that moves with a sluggish, heavy groan through the mist, your hands wrapped around a cup of tea that has long since gone lukewarm, the ceramic chipped at the rim,...
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