The Distant Cartograph

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 17:47:52 -

The road ended at the palace gates. The iron was black. It tasted of rust on my tongue. I was seven years old. My father was with me. He held my hand. His grip was tight. His skin was cold. The air was thick. It smelled of rain and stone. We walked up the hill. The palace loomed above. It was gray. It was silent. It had no sound. Only weight. My father looked at the gate. He did not speak. I...

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