The Wistful Atlas
The moss on the stone wall has begun to rot, a slow and sweet decay that smells of wet earth and forgotten things, and you sit in the center of the courtyard, your knees drawn up to your chest, holding the map so tightly that the paper has begun to tear under the pressure of your fingers, though you do not realize this because your mind is elsewhere, drifting in the grey mist that rises from...
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