The Wistful Atlas
The dream is always the same, a cold and metallic precision that wakes me before the sun has cleared the hills of the valley. I am standing in the drafting room, the smell of oak gall ink heavy in the air, and I reach for my quill, but where my left hand should be, there is only a compass needle, thin and sharp, spinning wildly in a void of white fog. I am Elias, a cartographer of thirty years,...
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