The Distant Cartograph
The ledger held forty-two hours of work. You counted them again, the ink still wet on the final line, a dark smear against the parchment that looked like a bruise. Your hand shook. It was a small tremor, barely a flutter, but it was enough to blur the numbers, enough to make the sum of your life look like a mistake. You were fifty-two. You had served the Imperial Archive for thirty years. In...
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