The Wistful Atlas
The brass astrolabe sat on the kitchen table, its face tarnished to the color of old bruised plums, and it was the only thing in the house that did not tremble when the wind shifted against the panes of the farmhouse. Elias held it with a grip that was less of a grasp and more of a tether, his knuckles white against the cold metal, as if he were trying to keep the stars from spilling out of the...
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