The Distant Cartograph
The vial in your pocket feels like a stone, cold and heavy against your hip as you step off the carriage onto the cobblestones of St. Jude Industrial Hospital. It is November, 1912, and the air is so thick with coal smoke that your lungs ache with every breath you take. You are thirty years old, a widow, and you have just accepted a night-shift nursing position because your son, Arthur, is...
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