The Wistful Atlas

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2026-08-19 20:25:36 -

The Wistful Atlas

The ink is fading. I can see it. The letters on the page are not disappearing. They are becoming less. They are becoming air. My mother’s name. It was strong. Now it is thin. Like a wire stretched too far. It will snap. I do not want it to snap. But it is doing so. I sit in the room. The walls are high. The tapestries are heavy. They smell of dust and old wool. I am alone. I am always alone...

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