The Distant Cartograph
The rain struck the stone ramparts with a dull, rhythmic thud. It was a cold rain, the kind that seeped into the marrow and stayed there. Thomas Bradshaw stood at the edge of the cliff. His coat was soaked through. The fabric hung heavy and gray against his shoulders. He did not move. He watched the water rush below. The river was brown and thick with silt. It churned against the rocks. It...
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