The Pale Protocol
14 November, 1893 The nib of the pen scraped against the parchment, a sound like a fingernail dragging down a chalkboard, as I pressed the final line of the lease into existence. My hand was steady, or I told myself it was, though the cold in the office had settled into my joints with a damp, persistent ache. I was thirty-two, a junior clerk in the estate office, and this signature was the...
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