The Wistful Atlas

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2026-08-22 21:20:22 -

The Wistful Atlas

The coal slurry was thick, black, and warm, coating my tongue like tar. I woke with a gasp, the taste of iron still on my lips, the damp air of the bunkhouse pressing against my skin. It was November, 1912, and the wind howled against the corrugated iron walls of Blackwater, a town that smelled of sulfur and despair. I was thirty-four years old, a Sergeant in the mine guard, and my body felt...

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