The Mapmaker sold certainty by the square centimeter.

His maps were famous for their precision. Roads aligned with roads. Borders looked clean. Rivers obeyed the ink. People paid extra for the glossy finish — as if shine implied truth.

One day a traveler returned, furious. “Your map says there’s a bridge.”

Evidence is not a feeling — it's a trail you can walk.

The Mapmaker nodded. “There was.”

“It’s gone.”

“Then your complaint is with time,” the Mapmaker said, and offered a discount on the next edition.

The traveler left. The Mapmaker turned to his apprentice. “Add a note,” he said. “Bridge subject to collapse.”

Most certainty is rented, not owned.

“But then the map looks uncertain,” the apprentice protested.

The Mapmaker smiled. “Exactly. Uncertainty is the part we usually hide in the margins.”

The margin is where truth goes when it doesn’t fit the layout.