The Distant Cartograph
The train cut through the gray fog like a needle through dead skin, pulling me back to the house where the silence had teeth. I had been away for three years, but the distance did not shrink the weight of what I carried. I was a prisoner of my own making, a man who had sold his soul for a few years of comfort and now paid for it in the currency of shame. My name was Arthur, and I was the son of...
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