The Wistful Atlas

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2026-08-20 16:06:42 -

The Wistful Atlas

It was cold. The kind of cold that bites through wool. I walked the track. My boots were thin. They leaked. I did not care. I had to keep moving. My father was ahead. He did not speak. He just walked. His shoulders were hunched. He looked small. Like a broken bird. "Keep up, Thomas," he said. His voice was rough. Like gravel. I kept up. I always kept up. We were leaving the town. The houses...

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