The Distant Cartograph
The letter lay on the table, the ink still wet, the paper damp with the cold that seeped through the windowpane. Elias Thorne read the date, November 14th, and then the signature, his own, scrawled in a hand that trembled with a fatigue he could not name. He had not written it. He had not left the house. The fog outside was thick, a grey wool pressing against the glass, and on the wall behind...
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