The Wistful Atlas
The fever had been with Elias for three days, a low-grade burn that sat behind his eyes and made the air taste of old pennies. He counted the hours on the watch tower, marking each shift with a notch in the ledger, the ink blurring slightly as the heat spiked. Twenty-two years of service, four hundred and eight inspections, and now, in his final week, the stone itself seemed to hum with a...
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