The Wistful Atlas
The strap of the rifle case bit into Elias Thorne’s shoulder as he lifted it from the bench, the leather worn smooth by twenty years of sweat and sun, and he felt the weight of it settle against his spine with the familiar, dull ache that had become the only constant in his life. He did not look at Martha, who stood by the door with her hands twisted in the hem of her apron, her face a mask of...
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