The Wistful Atlas
The rain came down in sheets, cold and sharp as broken glass, and I was holding the map. It was not paper. It was leather, thick and dark, worn smooth by the sweat of my palms and the years of carrying it. The ink was fading, the lines of the coast blurring into the parchment like bruises under skin. I pressed it against my chest, the way one clutches a wound, trying to keep the cold out,...
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