The Wistful Atlas
The pencil was soft, a 2B grade that smeared easily on the heavy bond paper. Elena held it between her thumb and forefinger, the graphite tip worn to a blunt nub, and stared at the shear wall diagram for the community center. The conference room was empty, the air still and thick with the scent of dry erase markers and cold coffee. Outside, the November wind rattled the glass partition, a low,...
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