The Wistful Atlas
March 14, 11:00 PM The ink was warm, which was the first thing that was wrong with it. I was tracing the coastline of the northern island, the one Father called the Threshold, and the black fluid bled through the back of the paper to the tablecloth, staining the white cotton with a bruise-like purple. I wiped my thumb on my trousers, but the smell lingered, thick and damp, like the air in the...
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