The Distant Cartograph
The ink did not dry on the parchment, nor did it bleed, for it was not ink at all but a suspension of liquid shadow that held the shape of things which had not yet occurred, a medium that defied the dryness of the air and the weight of the silence in my study where I sat alone with the smell of old vellum and the faint, metallic tang of fear that clings to the back of the throat when one knows...
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