The Pale Protocol
The letter is written in a hand that trembles. Not with age. With cold. You are holding it. You know this. The paper is thick. It smells of damp wool and iron. Read. I have been waiting for you to find this. I knew you would. The cycle turns. It always turns. You are in the mill. The air is thick. It tastes of coal dust. It coats the back of your throat. You are seven years old. Or perhaps...
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