The Pale Protocol
14 November 1893 I am writing this from the desk in the guardroom, the one with the leg that wobbles if you lean on the left side. The wind is howling against the shuttered windows, a low, continuous moan that sounds like a horse dying in the barn. I have been here three years, and I still do not like the sound of the night. It is too quiet between the gusts. Too attentive. The matter of the...
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