The Wistful Atlas
Elias Thorne pressed his thumb into the crack of the limestone wall, the grit biting into the soft pad of his skin, and felt the warmth rise, a slow, wet pulse that had nothing to do with the damp chill of the archive. He wiped his hand on his trousers, leaving a faint, rusty smear, and turned back to the ledger, his pen hovering over the next column of dates. The ink was black, but the stain...
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