The Pale Protocol
Act I Did the clock know she was lying, or did it simply refuse to keep time with a liar? Krystyna Kaminski stood in the shared kitchen of the requisitioned flat, her hands trembling not from cold but from the weight of the brass mechanism in her palm. She was forty-two, a refugee from the turbulent nineties who had washed up on these Mazurian shores, and her back ached with the specific,...
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