The Wistful Atlas
The rain hit the tin roof of the cottage with a rhythmic, dull thud. It was the only sound in the valley. Or so Arthur believed. He sat in the corner of the kitchen, his back against the cold plaster wall. His hands were still. They had been still for three days. He looked at the window. The glass was fogged from the inside, a white veil that blurred the world beyond. He could see his own...
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