The Wistful Atlas
The clock on the archive wall ticked with a heavy, wooden thud that Elias felt in his molars. He had counted three hundred and forty-two minutes since he had arrived, and his fingers, stained with the grey dust of old vellum, were slick with sweat. He needed the deed to the mill property, the one dated 1842, to prove to Clara that he was not a man who squandered what was given to him. If he did...
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