The Wistful Atlas
The map is wet. You are holding it against your chest, the paper darkening with the rain that has fallen for three days without pause. It is not a map of roads, or of towns, but of currents. It is a chart of the deep places, where the water moves against the wind. You have carried it since the coast, since the last lighthouse keeper pointed his lantern at the mist and told you to go. He did not...
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