The Wistful Atlas
The dust in the archive did not float. It settled. It weighed on the pages like a second, invisible ink. I sat in the back room of the Parish Hall, surrounded by the dry, brittle smell of old parchment and decaying wool. My name is Elias Thorne. I am a cartographer of the forgotten. Or so the Council of Elders believed. For three years, I had mapped the village of Oakhaven. I measured the...
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