The Wistful Atlas
The map was wrong. It had always been wrong, but today the error felt like a physical bruise under Elias Thorne’s skin. He sat in the high-ceilinged office of the Department of Cartographic Integrity, the air stale with the smell of dust and old paper. Outside, the rain lashed against the glass, blurring the grey skyline of the city into a smear of charcoal. On his desk lay a large sheet of...
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