The Distant Cartograph
The dream is always the same, a fragmentation of ink and parchment where the lines of the map dissolve into static, and you wake with the taste of copper in your mouth and your hands locked around the cold iron of the duty station’s railing, the vibration of the humming fluorescent lights seeping into your bones. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four, a border patrol sergeant whose uniform fits too...
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