The Wistful Atlas
The door locked behind Elias with a sound like a bone breaking. He stood in the corridor. The air smelled of damp wool and iron. He was a prisoner. The walls were stone. The stone was old. It had seen men like him before. Men who ate too much. Men who stole. Men who loved the wrong people. Elias looked at his hands. They were red. The flour was in his nails. He could not get it out. He rubbed...
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