The Distant Cartograph
The rain against the single, grimy window of the holding cell did not sound like water. It sounded like the static of a broken radio, a ceaseless, gray hiss that filled the silence where your thoughts used to be. You sat on the metal bench, your hands bound behind your back with a strip of leather that had long since worn thin, the raw edges biting into the skin of your wrists. It was a small...
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