The Wistful Atlas

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2026-08-20 08:35:26 -

The Wistful Atlas

The rain had stopped, but the air still smelled of wet wool and old coal. Margaret stood by the window, her fingers tracing the condensation on the glass. Outside, the garden was a blur of grey and brown, the roses stripped of their heads, the stems bare and brittle. "Did you hear them?" the question came from the dark corner of the room. It was not a request for information. It was a statement...

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