The Wistful Atlas
The rain taps against the windowpane of the study, a rhythmic, insistent drumming that you have long stopped hearing. You are sitting in the high-backed leather chair, the one that smells of old tobacco and damp wool, and you are looking at the mirror on the far wall. It is an oval piece of glass, framed in tarnished silver, and for years it has simply reflected the room. The bookshelves. The...
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