The Wistful Atlas
The brass key was cold in Arthur Vane’s palm, its teeth biting into the calluses of his thumb as he fumbled with the lock, the metal slick with the damp chill of the November air that had seeped through the windowpane while he sat at his desk. He turned the key twice, the mechanism grinding with the dry friction of rust, and pushed the door open, stepping into the narrow room where the coal...
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