The Distant Cartograph
The dream was not of darkness, but of a vast, unrolled parchment that stretched from the horizon to the horizon, pale as a bruised moon. On this parchment, the world was not a place of stone and soil, but a network of ink lines, rigid and precise. There were no people. There were no trees. There was only the survey. The lines did not waver. They did not bleed. They simply existed, an immutable...
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