The Pale Protocol
12 November The mortar is dry, but the silence is not. I have spent the last three hours on the scaffolding of the St. Jude’s bell tower, watching the stones shift in their sleep, a slow, tectonic grinding that vibrates through the soles of my boots and settles in my teeth. Clara is downstairs, asleep in the blue chair by the stove, her breathing a thin, reedy whistle that I can hear even from...
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