The Distant Cartograph
The storm does not break against the walls of the house so much as it dissolves into them, a viscous and omnipresent pressure that you feel in the marrow of your bones before you hear the wind screaming through the eaves, and you stand in the center of the grand hall, the one with the cracked plaster ceiling and the floorboards that groan under the weight of your own hesitation, holding the...
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