The Pale Protocol
The ink stains your fingers before the sentence does. You write by the window. The glass is cold. The night is wet. It is a feast of shadows. You are the host. You are the guest. You are the knife. The house is old. The walls breathe. The floorboards creak under your bare feet. You are twelve. You are small. You are watching. Your name is Elias. You do not say it. You do not need to. The name...
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