The Distant Cartograph
The iron key hangs heavy in your hand, its teeth worn smooth by decades of turning in locks that no longer exist, a cold weight against your palm that feels less like metal and more like a solidified piece of your own memory. You stand in the center of the archive room, a subterranean vault where the air is stale and thick with the scent of decaying paper and old dust, and you are waiting. The...
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