The Distant Cartograph
The mud on the road to the Abbey of Saint Jude was not merely wet; it was a living thing, a thick, sucking substance that seemed to pull at the boots of every traveler who dared cross its face, as if the earth itself were hungry for the weight of the living. I walked with a rhythm that had become second nature over the last three years of my service, a steady, metronomic thud that kept time...
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