The Distant Cartograph
"Property of the State. Seized." The ink on the label was still wet, bleeding into the cardboard like a bruise. Fernando Jorge held the box against his chest, the weight of it a cold anchor in the sterile apartment that smelled of bleach and damp wool. Across the room, Major Halloway stood by the window, his back rigid, watching the rain lash the Alfama steps outside. The water did not stop; it...
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