The Distant Cartograph
You are holding the wrong thing, Margaret, and you have been holding it for so long that your fingers have forgotten how to grip anything else, the cold iron of the map case biting into your palm not as a tool but as a shackle, a boundary line that you have mistaken for a door, standing there in the middle of the frozen tundra where the wind does not howl but screams with a voice that sounds...
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