The Distant Cartograph
The entry in the leather-bound atlas was dated October 14, 1914, and the ink was still wet when I pressed my thumb against the page to dry it, a small, domestic act that felt like a final goodbye to the world of desks and drafts. I was leaving for the front, carrying my father’s surveying tools and this map, which had been his life’s work and my inheritance, its pages worn soft as skin from...
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