The Distant Affair
The ledger sat open on the rough-hewn table, its spine cracked and soft with damp, the pages yellowed by twenty years of ink and sweat. Elias Thorne, forty years old and bent like a willow in a gale, dipped his quill into the pot, the iron gall ink slick and cold against his thumb. He was a cartographer, a maker of lines that held the world together, and he wanted only to finish the survey of...
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