The Distant Cartograph
"It’s Friday, Elias. That’s the deadline. No extensions." Mr. Halloway’s voice was dry, like sand rubbed between dry palms, and it cut through the low, persistent hum that filled the basement archive. I looked up from my desk, where the ink on my father’s map was still wet, still bleeding slightly into the paper’s fibers. The vibration in the floorboards was worse than usual today, a deep thrum...
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