The Wistful Atlas
The bell tower was not made of stone. It was made of bone. Thomas Ashworth stood before the great iron door. His hands trembled. He was a man of letters. A scholar of cartography. He had spent thirty years mapping the world. He had never seen a world that breathed. The air was thick. It smelled of wet iron and old blood. The town of Oakhaven lay below. It was silent. The fog was a living thing....
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