The Wistful Atlas
You are pressing the stamp down into the inkpad, the rubber hard and cold against the heel of your hand, and the smell of the black ink is thick in your nostrils, mixing with the damp, earthy scent that has been rising from the floorboards for the last three weeks. The room is the basement archive of the municipal building in Culloden, a place where the air does not move and the light from the...
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