The Pale Protocol
The blue stain is three millimeters wide at the knuckle. I count the minutes until the next coffee break, forty-two of them, while my hands rest on the cold steel of the filing cabinet. I am thirty-two years old, a junior archivist, and I am trying to decide if the stain is a lie or a fact. The Municipal Records Office smells of dry paper and old dust, a scent that gets into the pores of your...
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