The Wistful Atlas
The brass pen nib caught on the vellum, dragging a thin, jagged line across the contour of the riverbank, and I stared at the scratch as if it were a wound in my own skin. The workshop was cold, a damp chill that settled into the joints of the elbows and the knuckles, the kind of cold that comes from the fog outside the single pane of glass in the window. I am Elias Thorne, a cartographer of...
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