The Pale Protocol
The wall is cracked. You see it. A fissure. Thin as a vein. It runs from the floorboard to the lintel. You stare. You do not blink. The dust motes dance in the shaft of gray light. They ignore you. They ignore the crack. You are Margaret Holloway. You are fifty-two. You are the keeper of the house. The house is old. Oak beams. Slate roof. It stands on the hill. It has stood for three...
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