The Pale Protocol
The letter is addressed to you, but you are the one writing it. Or rather, you are remembering writing it. The ink is dry, the paper yellowed, but the words are still wet in your mind. You sit in the corner of the room, the one with the window that faces the alley. The light is gray. It has been gray for days. Maybe weeks. Time has stopped moving in a straight line. It circles now. It eats...
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