The Pale Protocol
March 12. I am thirty-four years old, and my hands are trembling as I sort the correspondence of the late Chairman. The air in the archive is thick with the smell of old paper and dust, a dry, choking scent that settles in the throat. I want this promotion. I have wanted it for two years, a desire that has grown quiet and hard inside me, like a stone in a riverbed. Mr. Vance, the new Director,...
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