The Wistful Atlas

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2026-08-19 09:01:13 -

The Wistful Atlas

"You are late." My father’s voice was not loud. It was the sound of ice cracking under a heavy boot. He sat by the hearth. The fire was low. Shadows stretched across the stone walls of our home. The house was old. It breathed with the damp of centuries. I stood in the doorway. My hands were shaking. I held the ledger. The paper was thin. It smelled of ink and sweat. "I am here," I said. My...

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