The Distant Cartograph
The frost had settled into the wool of your greatcoat like a fine, grey powder, settling deep into the weave until the fabric felt less like a garment and more like a second skin, heavy and cold and unyielding. You stood at the edge of the village square in Oakhaven, where the mist curled off the river and clung to the thatched eaves of the cottages, and you touched the collar of your coat with...
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