The Wistful Atlas
The jar had been sealed with wax and lead for three days, sitting in the center of the oak table like a dormant heart that had stopped beating before it was ever allowed to start, and I stood before it in the gray, industrial hum of the city, watching the dust motes dance in the single shaft of light that pierced the heavy velvet curtains of my workshop, a place that smelled of sulfur, old...
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