The Wistful Atlas
Thorne, you are bleeding on my floorboards. I woke with the taste of iron and wet wool in my mouth, the cold seeping through the thin wool of my sleeping bag to press against my ribs, a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the tent but everything to do with the fact that my heart was beating in a rhythm that did not belong to a living man. It was November 1904, and I was...
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