The Distant Cartograph
The room was small. The air was thick. Margaret stood by the window. She held the locket. It was cold. It was heavy. It was hers. It was not hers. The clock ticked. The steam hissed. Outside, the fog swallowed the street. The factory lights burned. Orange. Red. Dead. She looked at the locket. Gold. Dented. A face inside. Her face. Young. Smiling. She had not smiled in years. The metal bit into...
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