The Map that Traced Itself Part 3

Some maps don’t like being drawn–they prefer to hold the pen.
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The arrow shifted forward, each time Elias blinked.
Tracing a city path–
Towards his home. 
A route he never walked–but led straight to him. 
Ink seeped through the parchment paper, scaling his desk-An uncharted, sentient being. 
The street lines converged above the roof of his home, in unsound alphabets–
“Cartographer found.”
The pictures on the map warp into a dark pool of ink–
Hands. 
Tugging. 
A shadow stretches, this across the paper. 
A single pulse–the historical archives were no more. 
Elias found himself swimming in a vast sea–inside the map.
Its waves crashing–
A living being. 
A voice.
Not written or spoken. 
“Every explorer leaves something behind. It’s your turn.”
Back on Elias’ desk, the parchment lay still.
Untouched by the wind. 
The arrow traces a signature–
Elias Ma ps–Historian. Cartographer. 
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So what happens to our historian? Suggest in the comments!

Part 2

Part 1

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