The Distant Cartograph
The rain smells of wet iron and old straw. It seeps through the thatch of the mill house. You sit by the window. The glass is cold against your cheek. You are the mapmaker of Alder Creek. Or so the townsfolk say. They bring you their disputes. They bring you their broken fences. They bring you their lost dogs. You listen. You take notes. You draw the lines. You are the wise man. The elder. The...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior