The Wistful Atlas
The leather binding was cold, colder than the damp air of the basement should have allowed, and it held the weight of my hesitation with a silence that felt heavy. I sat in the blue-tinged gloom of the Royal Geographical Society’s archive, the year 1893 pressing down on the dust motes that drifted through the single shaft of gaslight. My task was simple, or so I had told myself for the past...
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