The Wistful Grid
March 14, 1892 My Lord, The salt lines have failed. I write to you from the edge of the granary, where the air tastes of copper and wet rot. I am Elias Thorne, your warden, and I must inform you that the containment protocol is broken. The Blight has crossed the perimeter. It does not move like a beast; it moves like a secret, expanding only when our gaze wanders, fed by the very doubt that...
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