The Wistful Atlas
The dream is always the same. You are standing in the center of the Great Hall, the one with the vaulted ceiling that groans under the weight of soot and rain. The floor is a mirror of black marble, reflecting not your face, but a map. A wistful atlas, drawn in lines of gold and rust, depicting territories that do not exist on any chart sold in London or New York. The boundaries are soft,...
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