The Distant Metropolis
The needle does not point north. I have checked it against the stars, against the iron filings in the compass rose, against the magnetic pull of the earth itself, and yet it holds its stubborn, impossible angle, fixed on a coordinate that should not exist in this high desert. It is October 14, 1893, and the wind here is a physical weight, pressing against my chest with the force of a blow. My...
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