The Pale Protocol
The ink was still wet on the last line of the letter when the dream began. It was not a dream of flying, nor of falling, nor of the familiar, suffocating weight of the sea that had swallowed his home three years prior. It was a dream of paper. A single sheet, drifting down through a shaft of pale, dusty light in a library that had no ceiling, only a vast, starless void. The paper was blank,...
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