The Distant Cartograph
The ink bled into the paper, a dark vein spreading across the topographic contour, and I watched it stain the edge of the world. I was forty-two years old, a senior cartographer at the National Survey Office, and I had just spent the night dreaming of a coastline that shattered like glass under the weight of a tide that did not exist. In the dream, the map was not a representation but a cage,...
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