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 folded the map into ever-smaller squares until it was the size of a pill, then swallowed it. A cartographer's last act of stewardship.

That night she dreamed in terrain: rivers where her thoughts ran, mountains where she'd made promises she couldn't keep, a coastline shaped like an apology.