The Distant Threshold
Why does a man spend his life measuring the unmeasurable? I asked this question to the wind, or perhaps to the fog, which was the same thing in the Bleak Valley. I am Afonso Rebelo, a cartographer of forty-two years, and I had come to this place not for glory, but for the pension that would allow me to die with some dignity. My father, who had died three winters past, left me a silver compass....
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