The Wistful Atlas
The fog did not roll in; it accumulated, a slow, grey sediment that settled over Kestrel Valley until the world was reduced to a white blur of suspended dust. I had been mapping this valley for thirty years, and in all that time, I had never seen the mist so thick that it could erase the ink from a surveyor’s log within the hour. My name is Elias Thorne, and I am fifty-two years old, three...
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