The Pale Protocol
The ledger shows forty-two days since the last repair. You count the shingles in your mind, one by one, matching them to the holes in the roof. Twelve are gone. Eight are cracked. The math is simple, but the weight of it is not. You are eleven, and your lungs feel like they are filled with wet sand. The cellar is damp. The air tastes of iron and old rot. You are writing this down because if you...
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