The Pale Protocol
The rain has not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray sheet that turns the world outside the attic window into a blur of mud and rust, and I sit here with the manuscript in my lap, my fingers trembling not from the cold but from the terrible, humming vibration that rises from the pages whenever I think too loudly about what we are. I am writing this to you, Clara, because I do not know if...
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