The Distant Cartograph
The walls of the old mill are breathing. You feel it in the plaster. A slow, wet expansion. A contraction. Like the lungs of a buried giant. You are standing in the center of the room. Your hands are behind your back. You are not holding a gun. You are holding nothing. You are holding the weight of the silence. They told you this place was dead. They told you the community had moved on. They...
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