The Pale Protocol
14 March 1912. The wind has stopped, which is worse than the howling because the silence makes the courtyard feel like a held breath, and I am writing this by the light of a single kerosene lamp that flickers with an irregularity that seems to match the rhythm of my own failing heart. I am Captain Elias Thorne, and I am here to correct the record, though I suspect the record is already...
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