The Wistful Atlas
The ink is drying on the page, but the fog outside my window is not. It presses against the glass of my temporary office in the village of Blackwood, a thick, grey wool that seems to have weight, a substance that defies the atmospheric conditions I have recorded for the past three weeks. I am Elias Thorne, a cartographer of twenty years, and I am writing this entry on the fourteenth of October,...
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