The Wistful Atlas
Chapter One By the time the mud took the first man, Francisco Cortes had already mapped the fracture lines that would kill them all. He stood at the edge of the river bend, the clay face slick and black beneath the November fog, his hands trembling not from the cold but from the wet, racking cough that had settled in his chest like a stone. The air tasted of coal smoke and wet wool, a...
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