The Wistful Atlas
The glue stick in my right hand was dry, a stick of pale, brittle paste that crumbled at the edges when I twisted the cap, and I held it up to the single bare bulb hanging from the basement ceiling, letting the dust motes swirl in the cone of yellow light that cut through the damp air. The ledger before me was swollen with moisture, the pages fused together in a way that required a bone folder...
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