The Wistful Atlas
The glass is cracked, Margaret." Marcus’s voice was flat, devoid of the performative warmth he usually deployed for the board of directors. He stood in the center of the vault, his hand resting on the back of a steel chair, looking at the object in my hands not with curiosity, but with the weary disdain of a man inspecting a faulty appliance. I held the Wistful Atlas, the pane of medieval glass...
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