The Distant Cartograph
The jar shatters against the floorboards of the cellar, a sound like a bone snapping in the quiet dark. You stare at the fragments, the amber liquid pooling in the dust, mixing with the grime of your boots. It is the last of the distilled essence, the concentrated memory of the orchards that burned last autumn. Your hands are trembling, not from the cold, which has a bite to it, but from the...
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