The Pale Protocol
The house did not bleed, but it wept. That is the only way I can describe the way the dampness seeped into the walls of our ancestral home, a slow, grey exhalation that tasted of iron and rot. I sat at my desk in the study, the wood grain worn smooth by the friction of a century’s elbows, and I watched the condensation form on the windowpane. Outside, the fog clung to the village like a shroud,...
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