The Distant Cartograph
The rain hit the tin roof. It hammered a steady, cold rhythm. It was the sound of the house dying. Elias sat on the floor. His back was against the wall. He held a map. It was old. The paper was brown. The ink was faded. It showed the mines. It showed the tunnels. It showed the way out. He looked at the map. He looked at his hands. His hands were shaking. Not from cold. From rage. The door...
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