The Wistful Atlas
The rain in Oakhaven did not wash the streets clean; it merely turned the grime into a slick, black varnish that coated the cobblestones and the windows of the municipal building, a place where Clara Vane had spent the last four years trying to make sense of the town’s numbers. It was the autumn of 1904, and Clara, thirty-two years old with hands perpetually stained by ink and paper, stood...
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