Atlas sat on a low stool in front of the big unfinished map. The thing hung on the back wall of their garden shed, covered in layers of old lines, new scribbles, and plenty of blank spaces people had added on purpose.
He held a chunk of charcoal and drew one more small gap near the edge. Nothing fancy. Just a break in a path that didn't need closing.
The charcoal scraped. A loose thread at the corner of the old Horizon Cartography section twitched. Then it unraveled. Black ink seeped out of the paper, not spilling like water but crawling down the wall in thin lines.
The lines hit the floor and kept moving, forming tiny paths that snaked across the dirt toward the garden gate. They didn't go fast. They just kept going, like they had somewhere to be.
Atlas stared. "Huh."
Skritch walked up the path right then, sack from his nonsense trip still slung over one shoulder. He stopped and poked one of the ink trails with a stick.
