The Wistful Letter
The brass astrolabe sat on my desk, cold to the touch, its rings aligned with a star that had not shone for forty years. I held it in my hands, feeling the weight of the metal against my calloused palms, and outside the window of my cramped office in the Ministry of Lands, the November rain slicked the cobblestones until they gleamed like wet slate. It was 1903, and I was thirty-two years old,...
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