The Distant Cartograph
The rain does not fall so much as it hangs in the air, a grey curtain that blurs the boundary between the heath and the sky, and you stand in the center of the northern woods with your ink-stained fingers wrapped around a charcoal stick, trying to remember if the line you are drawing is a ridge or a ravine. You have been here for three weeks, sleeping in the drafty shed that the Blackwood...
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