The Pale Protocol
October 12, 1911 The silence in the factory is not empty; it is heavy, a physical weight that presses against the eardrums until the ringing becomes the only constant. I am forty-two years old, and my hands, once steady enough to hold a rifle steady in the freezing mud of the Somme, now tremble with a fatigue that sleep does not cure. The lathe spins its endless, indifferent rotation, cutting...
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