The Distant Cartograph
"Is it warm enough in here?" You ask the question to the empty room. The house is silent, a heavy, woolen silence that presses against your eardrums. You are standing in the center of the living room, holding the brass compass. It is small, no bigger than a walnut. The casing is tarnished, green with age, but the needle is steady. It points North. It has always pointed North. Your brother,...
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