The Wistful Atlas
Chapter One Kourosh Salehi remembered the weight of the dust before he remembered the light. He was thirty-two, an archivist for the eastern sector, and he woke in the dim, recycled air of his berth with the taste of rust on his tongue. The dream was always the same: the eastern wall, crumbling, the mortar flaking away like dead skin. He sat up, the springs of the cot creaking in the dark. His...
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