The Wistful Atlas
The bell in the steeple of St. Jude’s did not ring on the day Aldous Vane walked out of the town, but rather, it seemed to hold its breath, a great, iron lung suspended in the thin, grey air of the highlands. He carried nothing with him but a heavy, leather-bound book, its spine cracked and frayed at the edges, which he pressed against his chest as if it were a shield against the biting wind...
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