The Wistful Atlas
"You have the map wrong, Thomas. You have the map entirely wrong." The voice of the magistrate cut through the thin, damp air of the parish hall, sharp as a whetstone dragging across a blade. I sat at the heavy oak table, my hands folded tightly in my lap, feeling the rough grain of the wood bite into my palms. Across from me, Magistrate Halloway leaned forward, his eyes narrowing behind the...
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