The Distant Cartograph
The clock on the wall ticked. It was a loud tick. Marcus watched the second hand move. It did not stop. It never stopped. He sat at the desk. The wood was cold. It smelled of varnish and old dust. This was the office. It was also the prison. And it was the home. His father had worked here. Before him, his grandfather. Three generations of hands on the same wood. The company had changed names....
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