The Distant Cartograph
The cardigan is wool, a heavy, slate-grey knit that has pilled at the elbows from twenty years of sliding across the mahogany desks of the National Repository, and in your hands, it feels less like clothing and more like a skin you have outgrown. You are fifty-two, Elias Thorne, and you are holding the garment in the sterile, fluorescent hum of the reading room, three months before your...
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