The Distant Cartograph
The map was wrong. I knew it before I touched the paper. It was a heavy, oil-stained thing, rolled tight inside a tin case that smelled of rust and old sweat. I kept it under the floorboards of my garage, next to the winter boots that no longer fit my feet. I am a man of few words now. I have been for a long time. The silence in this house is heavy. It presses against the eaves. It sits on the...
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