The Distant Cartograph
The contract lay on the desk, yellowed at the edges, the ink faded to a brownish gray. You signed it with a steady hand, the nib scratching against the paper. The final survey of the north wing was due in three days. Outside, the wind rattled the shutters, a dry, clicking sound that had become the background noise of your life for the past six months. You were forty-two. Your back ached from...
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