The Wistful Atlas
The map was wet, the ink of the river lines bleeding into the paper like a bruise that refused to heal, and you held it in your hands as if it were a live bird, its wings beating against the palm of your grip. It was a sheet of heavy, cream-colored vellum, torn from the corner of Clara’s desk drawer three months after she vanished, a document that depicted a street in the industrial district...
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