The Wistful Atlas
We woke in the snow, or rather, the cold woke us, a physical weight pressing against the backs of our eyes and our chests, and I found myself holding the map in my hands, the paper soft and yielding under my thumbs, worn thin as the skin of a peach, the ink bleeding into the fibers like old blood seeping into a wound, and I could not tell if I was dreaming or if the dream had finally bled into...
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