The Pale Protocol
Elias Thorne, you will come in from the cold before the fog takes your fingers. My dearest Clara, I write this by the light of a tallow candle that burns with a sullen, yellow hiss. The wind has stopped, which is worse than the gale, for now the silence presses against the shutters of this rented room above the chandler’s shop. I am forty-two years old, and I have never felt so young, so...
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