The Wistful Atlas
The ink in the pot had turned a shade darker than usual, a viscous black that seemed to swallow the light from the gas lamp, and I watched it tremble on the nib as I attempted to trace the coastline of the Northern Reaches. It was October the twelfth, 1924, and the room smelled of damp wool and old paper, the scent of the firm’s basement office where the air never truly moved. Father had...
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