The Wistful Atlas
Celeste Chargois stood at the window of one hundred and twenty-six of NineElm Crossing, watching the ice storm strip the bark from the elms, and knew that the debt was due in three days. The air in the front room was thick with the damp chill that seeped through the plaster, a cold that settled in the joints and refused to leave, much like the silence that had grown between her and her sister,...
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