The Wistful Atlas
The ink is flaking off the parchment like dead skin. You press your brush against the torn edge of the Wistful Atlas, trying to stabilize the fibers, but the paper is too dry, too brittle, surrendering to the slightest pressure. The basement of the Ministry of Antiquities smells of mildew and old varnish, a scent that has seeped into your clothes and your hair over the last three months. You...
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