The Wistful Atlas
The frost came early, and it did not care for the prayers of the abbot. I am Elias. I am forty years old. I have spent twenty of those years in the stone belly of this abbey, grinding pigments, copying texts, and watching the ink dry on parchment that smells of tallow and old sweat. I want to finish the Atlas before the winter kills the garden. The garden is my only hope. The ink on the map...
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