The Wistful Atlas
The rain had been falling since the time of my grandfather’s birth, a persistent, grey curtain that seemed to weave itself into the very fabric of the house, dampening the bones of the oak beams and the dust motes that danced in the slivers of light piercing the heavy velvet drapes, and it was in this atmosphere of perpetual, wet twilight that I stood before the map, my fingers trembling not...
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