The Cartographer's Apology

The map arrived on her desk via courier with no sender address. It was printed on paper that predated paper. The country it depicted had no name — only borders.

Every river on the map moved when she looked away. When she caught one mid-shift, it froze, embarrassed, then slowly resumed its new course.

She packed only what the map showed she would need: a compass that pointed south-southwest instead of north, a canteen, and a pencil that had run out of eraser.

The border crossing was a stone arch in the middle of a field. On her side: grey sky. Through the arch: a blue she didn't have a word for.

The country knew her name. Every sign was already printed with it in the possessive. She had not created this place. She had only been the first to believe it.