The Wistful Atlas
The letter lay on the counter, its edges soft from being handled too many times, the ink of the denial stamped in that specific bureaucratic gray that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. I picked it up, my fingers stained with the faint, metallic residue of the vials I had been counting all night, and I looked at the signature of Mr. Halloway, a name that felt less like a person...
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