The Wistful Atlas
The air in the Vane house in 1912 was always thick with the scent of machine oil and unwashed wool, a heavy, industrial tang that seemed to settle into the very fabric of the walls, but for twelve-year-old Thomas, the world was a bright, sharp board of sixty-four squares where every move had a consequence and every victory could be weighed in gold. He sat at the kitchen table, his fingers...
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