The Pale Protocol
March 12, 1942 The dispatch order sits on the desk, the paper thin and brittle under the weight of the brass letterhead. It lists the equipment to be packed: a canteen, two field rations, a map case, and the specific, heavy silence of a man leaving his home. I am signing my name in the corner, the ink of my pen a standard, obedient black, while the object in my other hand refuses to behave. It...
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