The Wistful Atlas
The rain did not fall so much as it insisted, a persistent, gray static that blurred the boundary between the wet asphalt of Route 9 and the dark, breathing pine forest that flanked it. Elias Thorne sat in the driver’s seat of his rusted sedan, the engine ticking as it cooled, his hands resting loosely on the steering wheel, knuckles white not from tension but from a cold that had settled deep...
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