The Wistful Atlas
The salt spray stung your eyes before the wind did, a sharp, bracing reminder that the world was not made for comfort but for endurance. You stood at the prow of the small, creaking vessel, your fingers white-knuckled around the railing, watching the grey horizon blur into a single, unbroken line of water and sky. Beside you, Thomas Bradshaw leaned back against the mast, his posture one of...
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