MADE

  The Arctic, a canvas of unending white, stretched before Robert Walton like a shroud. His ship, the Fame, once a proud vessel, now lay imprisoned, an inert monument to his fervent ambition. The vast, indifferent expanse of ice had swallowed his dreams of glory, leaving only a deafening silence punctuated by the mournful cry of the wind. It was a solitude so profound, so absolute, that it pressed...