The Distant Garden
The map was not a map. It was a wound in the paper, a jagged tear that ran from the northern coast to the southern border, and I held it under the fluorescent hum of the archive, my fingers trembling not from the cold, but from the sheer, crushing weight of what I had done. I am a scholar of cartography, or at least I was, until the department dissolved and the funding dried up, leaving me in...
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