Ciclo CCCX

The king’s new architect has brought a map of France rolled tight as a telescope, ink still wet at the borders. I hold it by the edge; the paper hums like a plucked lute string. Every river, every ridge, every forgotten borgo—they are all in his head now, not mine. Yet when he unrolls it beneath the high windows, the gold leaf on the parchment catches the dawn and burns like a second sun. I step back. The light does not belong to the map. It belongs to the hand that drew the line.