The Wistful Atlas
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that blurred the boundary between the cobblestones of the village square and the low, hanging sky, and in the center of that wet, trembling world stood a man whose armor had been forged not of iron but of a stubborn, quiet endurance that seemed to absorb the very dampness of the air around him. He was known to the few remaining...
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