The Wistful Atlas

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2026-08-20 09:51:58 -

The Wistful Atlas

The rain had not ceased for three days, a persistent, grey veil that turned the windows of the manor into weeping glass. I sat in the library, the room where the air always smelled of damp oak and old paper, and I watched the water trace its slow, inevitable paths down the pane. My hands, bound by the heavy leather cuffs of my sentence, rested on the arm of the chair. I was not here to read,...

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