The Wistful Atlas
The ink had not yet dried on the map of the northern provinces, a sprawling, pale thing of parchment and iron-gall that seemed to breathe in the dim, vaulted light of the Ministry’s inner chamber, when I realized that the lines I had drawn were not merely boundaries but a cage for my own spirit, a geometric trap from which there was no escape, for I had spent three decades tracing the edges of...
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