The Wistful Atlas
The hammer strikes the wet oak with a sound that is less a noise than a physical blow against the inside of your skull, a dull, rhythmic thudding that syncs itself to the erratic fluttering of your heart, which is no longer entirely your own but belongs now, in a terrifying and absolute sense, to the city above you, a city of stone and soot and ancient, unyielding law that has swallowed you...
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