The Distant Cartograph
The door sticks. You know it sticks. You pull, and the wood groans, a dry, skeletal sound that echoes in the narrow hallway of the house you are leaving. The air inside is stale. It smells of dust and old paper and the faint, sweet rot of flowers that died weeks ago. You do not look back. Not yet. You look at your hands. They are shaking. They have been shaking since the morning. The house is...
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