The Wistful Atlas
I. The heat does not break; it only deepens, a physical weight that settles on the shoulders of the Ruhr like a wet wool coat. I am Hannelore Klein, and I have spent twenty years cataloging the dead to keep the living from drowning in their own paperwork. The municipal archive sits in the shadow of the old steelworks, a concrete block where the air always tastes of rust and old dust. My pension...
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