The Distant Cartograph
The loom stood in the corner of the counting house. It was ancient. The wood was black. The threads were red. I sat before it. My hands were still. The air smelled of dust. And old wool. The light fell in a slant. It cut the room in two. I was the clerk. I kept the ledgers. I counted the coins. I did not weave. But I wanted to. The Guild Master watched. He stood by the door. His face was stone....
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