The Wistful Atlas
The road to the estate of Silas Thorne was not a destination in the way that maps suggest, but a slow, grinding erosion of self, a long exhale that seemed to stretch into infinity under the weight of a sky so gray it felt pressed against the earth like a damp cloth. I drove the black sedan with a steadiness that belied the trembling in my hands, the leather of the steering wheel cool and...
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