The Wistful Atlas
The wool of your waistcoat has thinned to a gossamer web across your ribs, the threads worn smooth by years of friction against the oak of the desk, a silent testament to the slow, grinding erosion of your self within the Halloway Ledger. You sit in the basement office, where the air is thick with the scent of dried lavender and old paper, and you trace the fraying edge of the hem with a finger...
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