The Pale Protocol
The ink had barely dried on the final page of the morning’s correspondence, a dense, looping script that spiraled inward like the shell of a nautilus, when the first tremor of the sickness arrived not as a pain, but as a silence so profound it seemed to suck the air from the small, windowless study, leaving only the dry rasp of Margaret Holloway’s breath and the distant, muffled thud of the...
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