The Distant Cartograph
The map was old. It lay on the table of stone. I held it tight. My fingers were cold. The ink was fading. The lines were worn. I walked in the hall. The hall was long. The walls were high. They were black with age. I walked past the doors. No one was there. The floor was cold. My boots were heavy. I carried the map. It was my duty. I was young. I was alone. The abbey stood in the mist. It was...
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