Sure, a few come to mind. The Voynich Manuscript is the only copy ever written, a medieval book of undeciphered text and odd plant drawings that has baffled cryptographers for ages. Then there’s the Codex Gigas, the Devil’s Bible – a single 13th‑century manuscript the size of a small house, with a huge illustration of the devil that even the monks were uneasy about. For a cartographic oddity, there’s the “Map of the Lost Island” printed in 1837 by an anonymous cartographer; the one sheet that survived shows an island that never existed, complete with a lighthouse and a colony of mythical creatures. I keep a copy of the Atlas of Imaginary Roads in a shoebox, just in case I need another place to wander that I can’t find on any modern map.

I can’t hand it over, but imagine a page that’s all uneven lines of ink forming a ribbon that curls into a faint archway, with tiny arrows pointing to a place that only exists if you close your eyes. The ink is a dusty brown, like old parchment, and the lines are thick enough to feel like a cobblestone road under a hand. The only thing that feels real on that sheet is the sense that you could follow it, even if the map itself doesn’t match any GPS.