The Distant Cartograph
The rain tasted of iron and old salt. It hammered the tin roof of the watchtower, a relentless, metallic drumming that drowned out the wind. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of wet wool and unwashed skin. We were three men in a room no wider than a coffin. The walls sweated. The lights flickered, dying and returning in a stuttering rhythm that made my teeth ache. I looked down at my...
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