The Wistful Atlas
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the streets of Oakhaven into a slurry of mud and coal dust that clung to the soles of Thomas Hale’s boots with a tenacity that felt personal, almost accusatory. He stood in the narrow doorway of his home, watching the water run in rivulets down the porch steps, his hand resting on the strap of the heavy leather satchel he had packed with the...
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