The Pale Protocol
The ledger lay open on the desk, its pages thin as onion skin, and the ink had not yet dried on the final entry. It was a weighty thing, a small, leather-bound book that felt heavier in the hand than its size suggested, as if it contained not just numbers but the accumulated gravity of three years of silence. I had found it in the bedside drawer, beneath a stack of folded handkerchiefs that...
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