The Wistful Atlas
The clock in the hallway did not tick. It hummed, a low, tectonic vibration that Maren felt in her molars before she heard it with her ears. It was the only sound in the house, a steady, geological pulse that marked the erosion of her days. Maren stood in the center of the living room, her fingers trailing along the spine of the leather-bound journal that lay open on the coffee table. The pages...
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