The Wistful Witness
The brass astrolabe sits in your palm, its intricate engravings cold against your skin, a weight that has become indistinguishable from your own flesh over the last forty years of wandering. You are standing on the edge of a cliff that overlooks a sea which does not appear on any modern map, the water below a churning, bruised purple that seems to breathe with a rhythm older than the stone...
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