The Pale Protocol
You are the last scribe of the old trade. The ink is black. The paper is white. You sign your name. It is 1893. The air tastes of coal and rain. You sit in the study of the Whitmore estate. The walls are lined with books you never read. The floor is cold. Your hands are stained. You are a forger. Not of money. No. You are a forger of memory. You write letters that were never sent. You draft...
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