The Faded Attic
You hold the brass compass in your palm, its face cracked like a dried riverbed, the needle trembling with a faint, almost imperceptible hum that you mistake for the vibration of your own failing heart. It is an object of negligible worth, a relic from a time when your father, Commander Elias Thorne, believed that the world could be mapped, pinned down, and conquered by the sheer force of will...
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